The Starlight and the Star-Knight
by Celridel
Summary: The budding romance between the minstrel Itarille and Elrohir, a warrior, beginning in April of Third Age 2463. Trolls ravage the lands, but Elladan's rashness leads his untrained warriors to terrible defeat. Elrohir must deal with a humiliated brother and his conflicting feelings of love and loyalty. Prequel to "Dreams Will not Separate Us". Part 1 of the "Pavath-Gilith".
1. Chapter I: Wounds of the Body and Soul

**Coverart belongs to the very talented artist Elena Kukanova. Thank you to** **Lydwina Marie for the encouragement!**

"Lord Elrohir."

A shadow was cast across the doorway of the armory, and Elrohir looked up from his sword. With a sigh of resignation, he slid it into the silver embossed scabbard and stood up. "Yes?"

The healer's apprentice stood in the entrance holding on to either side of the door frame, silhouetted by the sun behind her back. "Nestànu desires your help."

He rose to his feet, his sword by his side and the young apprentice skipped backward over the lintel and into the clearing. The armory was separated from the main house of Rivendell and was surrounded by a wide circle of trees. She was clad in the practical garb of the healers. Her dress came to her knees and her elbow length sleeves were tight. Hair tied away from her face and streaked with new leafy light, she went nimbly along the path, followed by Elrohir. Imladris lay in the open, although it was surrounded by aspens and bathed in the midsummer sunlight. They crossed the slim bridge that spanned a rushing tributary of the Bruinen and entered the courtyard. The apprentice walked in quick, short steps but Elrohir's longer, slower strides brought him close to her. She smiled at him; the white healer's sigil made of ciréd fabric shone in the sunlight, in contrast to the plain green muslin of her dress and leather belt.

"What is it, Gwindel?" he asked at last, as together they went up a flight of narrow marble steps that overlooked a patch of fragrant laurels. "Nestànu is a talented Healer, and well revered in the Healer's Guild."

Gwindel shrugged. "I myself have not seen the patient, my Lord. Perchance she is overwhelmed."

"Overwhelmed?" Elrohir opened the latticed door. "Overwhelmed with one or two?"

"You forget that the hunting party came from the Trollshaws this morning. And they say that the trolls are growing more cunning." called back Gwindel, already descending the steps. "I must gather herbs."

Elrohir closed the door behind him, drawing a deep breath. These rooms smelled of fragrant plants and sunlight spilled through floor-length windows into molten gold on the tiled floor.

Nestànu hurried by him, carrying a salver laden with clean bandages. She kicked the door to and nodded to Elrohir. "You are here to see to one of your brother's apprentices. His leg was mangled by a spiked troll club."

Elrohir winced. "So, that is what happened to the troll hunters?"

Nestànu shook her head, laying down the tray on a bed-stand. "The hunters were all hot-blooded youths. The brutes gave them a poor reception."

"And Elladan?"

"He was the only one who suffered merely a scratch, but mind you, from the accounts told, he was no less hot-blooded. His mother must speak with him. She is the only one who can coax sense into that foolish head of his."

"I will tell her when she returns," answered Elrohir, approaching the bedstead of his patient, a dark-haired youth who lay insentient.

His gaze was drawn by the glint of gold to the bed beyond, and he drew in his breath sharply. An Elf-maid lay there. Her face was very pale, but to offset her pallor, thick waves of honey-colored hair splayed across the pillows, and gold gleamed in their midst as if sunbeams were ensnared in the tresses. She was slender and appeared to be shorter in stature than many Elves, but the lineaments of her face were drawn in childlike innocence, bearing an indefinable enchantment.

"Nestànu," he called softly. "Who is the maid?"

The healer did not turn from her charge. "That is a young Elf woman was riding along the pine ridges. Her horse stumbled and she fell to the bottom."

"Horse?" echoed Elrohir blankly. "Since when do Elf horses stumble?"

"No, Elf horses do not," answered Nestànu briskly. "Do you remember the young horse that was caught a fortnight ago? It was not an Elf horse. Some foal from the Horse-lands, perhaps. Anyway, it tripped and broke its neck, unfortunate beast."

"And it's rider?"

"She fell into the river below and was rescued by her companion. She broke several bones and has a deep injury to the head. She is still insensible, but we have hopes that all be well with her. Now, do not neglect your patient."

Elrohir tore his eyes from the girl, focusing all his attention on the twisted leg. The bone had been crushed into fragments, and the skin ripped by the curved barbs the trolls spiked their clubs with. Washing his blood-stained hands in the warm water, he said, "I do not know that Calharn will have two legs to walk on."

Nestànu turned to him, her tawny hair coiled around her head in a manner typical of the females in the Healers' Guild. "We must make all our efforts to save his leg." She examined Elrohir's work and gave him a rare smile. "Very good, master Elrohir. You are measuring up to your father's reputation."

Elrohir grinned at Nestànu's praise, and bowing, left the room.

He found Elladan, dressed in a sleeveless jerkin, wading in the rushes. Elrohir followed him, down the steep bank. The bank was thick with reeds and his feet sank into the mud. This was one of their childhood haunts, for an old tree leaned over the shallow, pebbly pool. Its trunk was hollow, although leaves still budded on its monolithic branches.

Now his twin sat on a mossy boulder, his head on his knees, staring into the rippling pool. The light came pale green through sun-drenched leaves, illuminating the dust motes in their beams.

"Elladan," he began, understanding his brother must feel disheartened and ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"For the love of peace!" shouted Elladan, disturbing a flock of belted kingfishers, who fled away behind a leafy bend, their rattling calls ringing in the air. "You're sorry! I am the one who is sorry! I led them into an ambush." He was growing wild. "We could smell the stench of the trolls, but we could not see them! And then… Oh, it was a cunning ruse for those _rhach covndhol,_ those _thasta_ …"

"Elladan, I understand the jist of it. Pray continue."

"A weighted net fell on us. We must have sprung a trap unintentionally. Most of us were tangled up in the meshes, but some of those who scouted, myself including remained free. But we could not stop the trolls. We had hardly begun sawing away the hemp when they burst out, and set about hammering us with clubs and maces." He laughed, a raving mirth that was defense against his tears. "Many of us were turned to the jelly Melenesta used to make. Bruises and blood. Black and red. Like blackberries and…"

"Enough of your gruesome comparisons, Elladan," broke in Elrohir again, the severity of his words belying the tenderness of his tone. "Elladan, tears are not a sign of weakness." he began again, but his brother's jaw was suddenly hard and he stood up, speaking with a forced gaiety that was always a foreword to sudden fits of rage. "Of course, of course. Do you suppose Melenesta still makes that jelly?"

"I am surprised you have the hunger," answered Elrohir bitingly.

"Pray do not be mordant," replied Elladan. "I am going."

"Where to? The kitchens?"

Halfway up the bank, Elladan turned around, his face a cold, fixed mask. "To the sickbay. Did you think I was off to raid jellies and rolls from Melenesta?" he spat through gritted teeth.

Elrohir stood up. "Why yes. Yes, I did."

His twin gone, Elrohir waded down the bend in the river and watched the iridescent flash of the kingfishers as they fell arrow-like into the warm water, stabbing at silvery minnow shoals that hurried hither and thither. Those who were victorious returned to a snag with their prize in their black beaks; the others tried their luck again.

At last, when the westering sun became warm on the front of his face, he turned towards the Homely House, to see how Calharn was faring.

The Healing Wing was empty of Nestànu and her apprentices, but Half-Elf heard the undulating murmur of voices from the herb gardens below.

He found Calharn still unconscious, no doubt because of a sleeping draft Nestànu had administered to prolong the swoon. Elrohir sighed. "Arwen will never forgive me. You were her best play-mate, even if she quarreled with you from dawn to dusk."

The pillows rustled, and looking past Calharn he saw the maid stirring. She winced, laying a hand on her bandaged head, and then sat up, staring dazedly at Elrohir with wide forest-green eyes.

He gazed back at her, grey eyes as shocked as green ones.

"Why am I here?" she muttered, shifting her gaze perplexedly to the carved ceiling.

"You are in the-"

"Healing Wing. I know that," she said. "But why?" She turned his face towards him, and when the delicate contours of her tilted face suddenly came in contact with the afternoon light, Elrohir was lost. But when she raised her brows inquiringly over the green depths of her eyes, he answered dispassionately, "You fell off your horse."

The Elf-maid sighed. "And Rocaran?"

"I am sorry, but I believe he broke his neck."

"Pour Rocaran," she lamented. "He was a worthy beast. So different from our Elven Horses, but nonetheless, he was good."

"I am sure he was."

Grasping the ledge of a window sill, she tottered to unsteady feet and fell back again onto the bed. "Yes, he was." she agreed. "May I impose on you and ask you to fetch my sister?" she added with a strained smile.

Elrohir jerked suddenly out of his trance. "Of course. What is your sister's title?"

She sighed, suddenly remembering. "But you will not find her here. They went as escorts with the Lord and Lady of Imladris, of course."

"Is there any other kin you would desire to see…" He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Itarille. And no, many thanks."

He bowed stiffly and departed.

~.~

Itarille perched on the balustrade, swinging her legs aimlessly as a light rain misted over her. It was a warm evening, and the earthy scents of spring rains surrounded her. The healers had freed her a week ago, much to her delight, for she had yearned to return to her music.

There was a firm knock on her door. "Come…wait, no!" she cried, suddenly recollecting where she had left her high harp.

The door opened even as she rushed in through the curtains. There was a terrible crash. Itarille shut her eyes and when she opened them she found a raven-haired Elf sprawling at her feet, having tripped over her harp. She looked down at him in surprise, and then to her delicate instrument, which lay on its side.

Suddenly he was on his feet, apologizing to her, and she was surprised at how much she had to tilt her head to look him in the face. "I am so very sorry. I heard you say…I apologize, I know how much instruments mean to their players. I hope it is not broken, I will try to compensate you if it is."

Itarille's eyebrows were arching higher and higher at each word. Was this stammering Elf really the cool, reserved one she had met in the Healing Wing?

"I hope you are well, that I did not alarm you…" He trailed off, abashed.

Itarille looked at him suddenly, startled out of her thought. "Oh! Oh, yes, I am quite well, though I am afraid I cannot say the same for my harp."

The Elf winced, setting the instrument upright on its pedestal, and then moving it from the entrance. "I have overstayed my welcome, as your harp may attest. Is it damaged?"

Itarille ran an experimental hand over the strings. "The sound is not damaged, but the crown…" She motioned to the ornate carving that completed the pillar of the harp. The most delicate apex of it was snapped off, a curled frond of a fern carved from polished black walnut wood.

"I will carve it again." said her visitor eagerly, reaching for the harp. Itarille instinctively hugged it to her, and he let his arms drop to his sides. "I am very sorry," he repeated, eyes downcast. "Pardon the damage I have caused."

"It is no matter," answered Itarille, trying to speak lightly.

The Elf was retreating to the doorway, looking hunted. "Is there anything I can do?"

Itarille had knelt to pick up the carving that lay on the ground, wondering if she could somehow fasten it together. She looked up. "No, no thank you, not at all."

The door fastened behind him, but Itarille had a lasting image of a miserable countenance. She fell down gracelessly on her bed, closing her eyes to shut out the image of the strong-jawed face. There seemed to be some hint of playfulness about him, or would have been if he had not broken her harp. His hair had been plaited untidily, tangled into one thick raven braid. She had not seen that style before in any other of the male Elves, but something about seemed wonderfully charming, especially the way the loose wisps framed the high cheekbones and penitent grey eyes. He was so charming now, caught off guard. She had disliked his aloofness when they had first met, but…

Itarille sat up and swung her legs over the bed. "You are a little fool." she reproached herself out loud and set herself to the task of mending her harp.

~.~

"Anymore, Calharn?"

The Elf grimaced. "No."

Elrohir put the plate on the bedside. "Calharn, cherries will help dull pain. Besides," he added lightly. "I picked them myself. Surely you do not want to disappoint me."

"I care not for that. Send out a pretty maid tripping out to pluck them for me and it might be different," answered Calharn through pain-clenched teeth.

"Gwindel!" called Elrohir, as the comely Elf closed the shutters in preparation for a damp night.

"No." she answered sharply, turning round on her heel to glare at Calharn. Her curly mane, wrapped in a knot in the back of her head and secured by a braided strand of hair, was beginning to tumble from its fastenings. "He has done nothing but harp at us the whole day. If he will not eat the cherries, give him poppy milk or nothing."

"Willow bark tea?" asked Elrohir meekly, raising his eyes beseechingly to the irate apprentice.

Gwindel was gone in an offended flurry of skirts.

"Why did you do you ask for willow tea?" asked Calharn petulantly. "Poppy milk numbs the pain altogether."

Elrohir rose. "We must wean you off it. I have been lessening its strength for the past week, as you may not have noticed. Lovely Gwindel will make a strong brew of willow tea, and it will numb the pain enough for you to sleep."

"Quite so." snorted Calharn disbelievingly.

"Quite right," answered Elrohir with an air of overriding assurance. "And if you cannot, remember it is your own fault you blundered into the net of dull-witted trolls."

"That ruse was not half-witted in the least." insisted Calharn angrily, his grey eyes suddenly ablaze with anger. "That was not trolls who set the ploy! See for yourself!"

~.~

Itarille tucked the violin under her chin, lifting her fingers along the polished maple neck. She flexed her left hand. It was still clumsy and bandaged. Picking up the swan-billed bow she floated it over the strings. They quivered, vibrating with sound, but she winced as the strings shrilled in answer to the awkward movements of her bow.

For a moment she paused, trying to focus her mind on the euphoria of music she had always felt, whether she played or listened, but to her dismay, she felt something breaking in concentration, a barrier to the complete surrender to the joy of music.

She narrowed her eyes at the grafted scroll and began again, only to hear the notes stridently loud to her judgmental ear.

Itarille tried again and made it through a strain of the music before she was forced to stop. With a sigh, she tenderly laid the instruments in the velvet lined case and went to tell the musicians she could not join them.

When she returned from her advent, she found that the young moon was rising, a thin crescent of ivory over the jagged silhouettes of the Misty Mountains. It lit the mist that wandered through the damp spring woodlands. A wet, warm wind was caressing equally her face and the pale green of newborn leaves.

Raised voices came to her ears, and Itarille leaned over the railing.

"Dear gods, Elladan, where is your prudence! Do you truly understand what you are suggesting to do?!"

"Yes, I know! Enjoy your stay as Captain of Rivendell's Guard, brother mine."

She recognized the lower voice now as the one of her strange visitor and covered her mouth with her hands. So he was Elrohir, son of the Lord of Rivendell. His tones were dangerously quiet and trembling with rage. "You do not know that, Elladan. You must first ask the leaders."

"You were always one to follow the rules, Elrohir! Why? There is no cause to be a pedant!"

She could see them now, as the moon rose. One was standing, statue-still, the other was pacing in hardly-constrained fury.

The youngest son of Elrond swung round in a violent counterattack. "The lives of your apprentices mean so little to you!" he challenged his raging brother. "They are simply proof to attest that you are worthy of a station beyond your wit or your skill!"

Itarille drew in her breath, a faint fluttering sound of surprise as she saw Elladan turn round as if to strike a blow. Elrohir caught the hand and pushed him back, face grim in the pale radiance, but his eyes were hidden by shadow.

Suddenly Elladan dropped back. Crossing his hands over his chest, he bowed his head and departed, a symbol of regret. Elrohir stood alone and motionless, his eyes wandering across the skies until they fell on her. Mortified, Itarille stood immobile under his piercing gaze, until Elrohir turned and wandered into the shelter of poplars.

When he had disappeared from view, she rushed through the curtains. Her heart was thudding, her face flushed with shame.

Spying on the son of Lord Elrond! Oh, that was a pretty thing to be caught at! She groaned out loud, her head slumped in her hands. She could feel the rising heat on her cheeks.

She jumped upon hearing a knock at the door and remained silent then, hoping that he would give up. The knock was repeated in a brisk series of raps on the wood, and a firm voice said "I am aware that you are within. Please let me speak to you."

"I….am sorry. I feel unwell," she called out, looking longingly towards the window. Velvet dark obscurity beckoned her away from the flush of humiliation.

"And you hoped a breath of fresh air upon the balcony would restore your faultless health," answered Elrohir. "I am not one to believe lies, Itarille."

"Very well, enter if you must," she answered curtly, but if she had hoped to dissuade him by her tone, she failed, for the door opened cautiously. Elrohir looked around before he opened the door fully and stepped in. "I am glad to see your harp is safe," he said, nodding the instrument that stood restored in the far corner of the room.

Itarille folded her arms over her chest, her eyes shifting around the room before her gaze was pulled unwillingly towards his. "Lord Elrohir, is there something I can aid you with?"

"Indeed, yes. I believe you were an unwitting listener to the conversation between my brother and I. I would pray that you would not pass it on. That is my duty." He fixed his cool steel gaze upon her, eyes of impenetrably hard grey. "But if you must speak of it, tell it to one of your companions. But not to the War Council."

"I wouldn't dream of it. Telling anyone at all." she stuttered. His face was like a mask, calm and composed. She knew he had emotions, that the fieriest of passions could be hidden beneath a disguise of stone….

"Very good." He bowed, a wry smile playing around his lips. "May the dawn better your health."

Her eyes widened. She took an involuntary step backward, but Elrohir was gone. The door shut quietly behind him.

~.~

He paced, his hands behind his back, as he waited for the Council to assemble. He had forgone his usual method of braiding and had neatly plaited his hair in a more conventional manner.

The sun was rising, gilding the uneven peaks of the Misty Mountains. The cool air of spring was laden with the fragrances of dew and growing things, and low spring mists hovered near the ground.

"Oh!" It was an exclamation of involuntary surprise that made him turn, and he saw Itarille retreating slowly.

"My apologies, Lord Elrohir," she said, seeing he had noticed her. Her voice held nothing of the stutter of yesternight. "I did not know you were here."

"No matter. I am merely waiting for the Council to assemble. I would be glad for the company, but you seem to have some pressing engagement." He eyed the short, belted tunic and then let his gaze travel up to her face, where her hair was braided around her head in a thick crown.

"Indeed, I was going out to practice my archery skills while the morn is cool. In troubled times like these, all who can should learn how to wield their weapon of choice."

"I think that is an admirable sentiment," Elrohir answered.

There was uncomfortable silence before Itarille exclaimed. "I think I hear…..I mean, I think I should be leaving." She withdrew hastily and Elrohir watched her departure with enamored eyes.

A quick, steady footstep alerted him to Glorfindel's approach. The Balrog-slayer looked strangely grave, and his famed gold hair, instead of being loosed to glorify the winds, was braided.

"This is a fine morning, my Lord."

"Is it?" answered the other.

Elrohir's brow furrowed. This was indeed unlike his mentor. "It looks…"

"Enough with the morning. We are speaking of a subject less fair. Your brother."

Grey eyes fell. "Glorfindel," he began to plead, but the Vanya broke in tenderly, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I know you will feel the disgrace as deeply as your brother, Elrohir, but he was recklessly foolish. The Captain of the Guard may never be imprudent. Too much depends on him."

"What of the War Council?" stammered Elrohir, searching the blue eyes.

"We have decided unanimously. I abdicated from that position fifty years ago. Now I will succeed to it. Bring your brother, I will bring the other members." Glorfindel smiled consolingly at his once apprentice. "Take heart, my young friend. I have no doubt that Elladan would soon take up that rank once again."

With a heavy heart, Elrohir left the room, leaving Glorfindel staring at the window, his hands behind his back. He loved the two Peredhil as his own sons, and he had felt a father's pride in furthering Elladan as he succeeded through the ranks of Imladris's echelon. But the firstborn of Elrond was wild, lacking his father's wisdom but having in ample measure his mother's obstinacy and fiery temper. Celebrían must have been a trial indeed as a child, he thought, laughing inwardly, but the mirth was soon quenched.

Elladan's position was too vital to allow for any show of imprudence, and what he had done had been rash indeed, endangering the lives of his followers to the greatest measure.

"My Lords Gildor and Erestor," he said without turning.

"Should we abstain judgment till the other members return?" demanded Erestor without preamble.

Glorfindel turned around. "No. No. Fair as their judgment might be, they are still prejudiced for their son. Ah. Peredhil, pray enter."

The twins stood there. Elrohir was silent, Elladan fuming with hardly concealed rage.

Erestor continued in the abrupt manner that distinguished him. "Elladan son of Elrond, you already know or at the least guess, if you have any manner of wit about you, why you were called."

Glorfindel intercepted the curt speaker smoothly. Erestor's judgments were effective, but in this instance, they would only add salt to the wound. "Elladan, while your courage is admirable, your prudence is lacking."

Elladan's knuckles were white as his fingers curled into his palm.

"Not only bravery but also strategy is necessary to hold such a high position as Captain of the Guard. The choices of that Elf decide the very safekeeping and secrecy of Rivendell. As such, I commend your courage but advise you to learn digression. I will take over your position for now, though I hope you will soon resume again. You will be a soldier with now a rank in the Guard. I wish you every fortune along the way." He bowed his head slightly. "You are dismissed."

Elladan left the room strangely calm. Glorfindel had been waiting for an outburst of rage, but for now, the passion had subsided to the ice of inevitable humiliation.

"Well," sighed the former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, staring with quiet longing out to where the sun shone. "I suppose I must be about my duties."

~.~

" _There were three counsellors of Elrond's own household: Erestor his kinsman (a man of the same half-elvish folk known as the children of Luthien), and beside him two elflords of Rivendell._ " (The Return of the Shadow)


	2. Chapter II: How Terrible the Battle

**Guest Replies:**

Majorie,

Hello and I really want to thank you for the review!

Ah, I knew I should listen to my word processor. But I'm not sure yours exceptionally boring….grammar curriculums seem universally tedious.

Tolkien did reuse names occasionally (the most prominent example in my mind being Legolas of the House of the Tree in Gondolin, and Legolas Prince of Eryn Galen) But thank you for pointing it out, I did give the name some consideration, but since Itarille is mostly known as Idril, I felt it would be all right.

Thank you and thank you. The twins are still in their youth, hot-bloods, and that encourages them in their desire to be separate. But because Elrohir contains anger longer, it's much more intense when he snaps, though fortunately, no one sees that often.

I'm glad the chapter lengths are alright, I was worried that ten pages in T.N.R size 12 font would be too long.

Hope Chapter 2 doesn't disappoint, and _hannon le_!

~.~

"But, Captain, do you not think that Elladan had the right of it? To attack the trolls before we are attacked?"

Glorfindel turned impatiently to Elrohir, not breaking his stride as the two Elves hurried down the corridor. "Yes, indeed I do. But I will take seasoned warriors, not apprentices with me. You might do well to go prepare."

Elrohir bowed quickly, his closed hand to his heart in a gesture of obedience and hurried off in the opposite direction.

Glorfindel breathed a sigh of relief and pushed open the iron-and-oak doors. Sunlight flooded in. Blinking in the sudden glare, he saw a maiden silhouetted by the sun hurrying down the path. She was unusually tall, and he found tears in his eyes.

"Do you yet wait for me?" he found himself saying and did not see the Nando with her hair-net but saw a Vanya maiden who always wore her hair in a braid, climbing the cliffs of the Echoriath with him.

"Pardon me?" questioned a youthful voice behind him, and he turned to see an Elf smiling shyly at him. "May I get by?"

He bowed elegantly as he stepped to one side. "Of course, fair…?"

"Itarille," she answered. "Lord Glorfindel…" She blushed, lowering her eyes. "I heard that a company were departing and- I wished to see Elrohir. And tell him I mended my harp," she added hurriedly.

Glorfindel nodded understandingly. "He is done by the armory, Itarille."

Itarille nodded a bashful thanks and rushed past him.

~.~

The rasping sound of metal upon a grindstone grated upon Elrohir's ears as he stepped into the cool building.

"Elladan! We leave at dawn!" he called out above the scraping whirr. Elladan looked up, nodded, and then bent his attention back to his sword.

Elrohir sighed and returned to the sunlight, running a hand through his hair to pull back strands that had fallen loose from the braid.

"I heard that you were leaving."

He turned around, awkwardly putting his hands behind his back. "Yes. Yes, actually. At dawn."

"I wish you good fortune," said Itarille. "I will ask the Válar for a safe return."

"We may need it. I thank you for your prayers."

There was a brief silence before Elrohir shifted and cleared his throat. "I should leave."

"Yes, perchance," said Itarille, but did not move.

Unsure of how to proceed and not wanting to push past her, Elrohir stood still, noting a rising flush gradually rising on her face. Finally, she blurted. "A thousand pardons, for impeding you."

"It is naught," assured Elrohir, stepping past her. He did not look back.

Up ahead, the House was in clamor as the warriors assembled. Shields and helms rang, horses pranced in agitation.

~.~

"Flank them?" repeated Elrohir, his voice pitched with doubt. "Trolls do not stay in battalions, if they did, we should have chosen our gravestones!"

Glorfindel drew in a patient breath. "Do you not think that whoever now commands them will do their best to unite them? United, they are far more formidable, as you yourself just noted. Riding in headlong does not win the battle. We need a strategy." He nudged the _Ararochath_ -bred horse gently. It was a grey stallion, once swift and surefooted, but Glorfindel feared that he was seeing the end of its prime. "No need to be indolent, Rochael."

The horse nickered and reluctantly entered a canter. Glorfindel sighed, patting the grey-speckled neck. "After this, my friend, no battle for you, only sunny pastures."

Elrohir urged his mare up beside his commander. "Strategies of what kind?" he demanded, readdressing the subject stubbornly.

"The kind that gives us victory. The trolls have shelter and supplies somewhere, we will cut them off from these, using Laiquendi tactics, and keep them till dawn does our work for us."

"I do not much care for Green-Elf ploys," objected Elrohir, dissatisfied. "Besides, how do we lead them away from their caves?"

"I do not ask you too. And from reports scouts have brought, they roam freely during the night. It is gathering the trolls together that I fear."

"We might use the honeycomb instead of the whip," replied Elladan, behind them. His fine-bred filly looked eager to run, but the only answer to her impatience was that Rochael turned and regarded her once with mild curiosity.

Glorfindel looked around him. "Oh?"

"The prospect of man-flesh. Or Elf flesh, for that matter, may induce them out."

"You think rightly, Elladan. The concept is sound, but how will we work it? Shall we bind the choicest of our company and set them dangling from a branch like an apple?" He looked back at his company, tall, muscular Elves well-versed in weapon play. "They seem a stringy lot to me."

Elladan glowered. Elrohir ducked his head in a smile at Glorfindel's observation.

"So, my friend," continued Glorfindel. "How shall we do it?"

"I will be the bait and feign injury, making enough noise to attract the trolls. All you have to do then is keep them there," answered Elladan. There was resentfulness in his voice.

Glorfindel appeared unmindful of the aggrieved tone. "I allow it, provided you do nothing rash."

There was silence behind them. Glorfindel's face was set forward again. They could hear the Loudwater foaming in the spring floods.

"Very well," said Elladan at last, sullenly.

"Very well what?"

"I will do nothing rash."

"Then I appoint you to the honored position of being trussed up like a game foul," answered Glorfindel wryly.

"I am sure I thank you for it." retorted Elladan.

"You are most welcome," replied the Balrog Slayer, turning to Elrohir. "May I speak to you of less serious matters, Elrohir?"

"Always." answered the younger twin, staring away to the ranks of gnarled old weeping willows that lined the Eastern banks of the Ford of Bruinen. Small leaves were beginning to bud on their drooping branches, a mist of grey-green caressed by spring sunlight.

"Did you say farewell to Itarille?"

Elrohir turned rigid. "What? Why?"

"She was looking for you."

"Yes," he said hesitantly. "Yes, we spoke. What of it?"

"She is a beautiful maid, and I know it might be difficult for young-bloods to keep their heads on the battle in front of them if they had a love at home."

"You must deem me young indeed," complained Elrohir. "Itarille means naught to me, no more than any other Elf of the House."

Glorfindel laughed softly to himself. "Very well, I misspoke."

"Indeed, Captain!"

Seeing Itarille, and the stumbling way she and Elrohir mingled together brought back remembrances, vague memories he thought he had conquered when he left Valinor the second time were reappearing.

She had golden hair, like most of his mother's kin, but it was pale and straight. Frowning slightly, he tried to recall her features, they were hazy and vague. She had green eyes, deep, intelligent green. Itarille's face and eyes blurred into hers, but that color was not the color he thought he remembered. No, she had a strange hue, warm and rich and soft.

Mayhap it was green. But it wasn't, surely. Was it?

He raised a hand to shield his face from branches. Passing through the gnarled willow trunks that clustered close, sending sprawling roots that bulged from the leaf-littered ground, he saw the Bruinen Ford.

It was swollen, rushing discordantly along in the vicious glory of spring flooding. Frigid water tumbled over the rocky bed, briefly turning white. Rochael made his way down the shore of tumbled rocks, plunging into the cascading water without a halt. It foamed, beating against his heaving sides and Glorfindel dismounted, leading his valiant horse through the Ford and up the steep bank. It had been a mistake to bring his steed here when all he deserved were sunlit fallows. Rochael was enfeebled with age, useless as war horse or hackney, but Glorfindel had wanted his trustworthy friend on this last journey.

Elladan's hound bounded up the bank, shaking itself vigorously once it reached the top. Glorfindel wiped his face and proceeded up past the dog, who was waiting for its master.

"Hûenon, heel," called up Elladan, leading his horse through the shallows on the Western side. The dog, a lithe gray mongrel, muscular and confident despite his doubtful heritage bounded to Elladan's side, jaws open with delight.

Elladan scratched the perked ears, pausing for a moment before ascending the slope. It was too steep to have any plants growing, and the soil was clayey. The horses pawed for a foothold, making ungraceful leaps to gain the brow of the hill.

Glorfindel did not remount Rochael. Instead, he led him through the forest. It was a young wood, with green buds swelling on every branch, and young ferns peeping in clusters through the leaf mold. Bracken crunched under their feet, and Hûenon gambled ahead of them, yelping excitedly until Elladan called him back to his side. As they progressed, they began to see signs of the marauding trolls. Young trees were pulled up by their roots and the ferns were crushed by heavy footsteps. In some places, the ground was scorched with fires and scattered with bones, gnawed by dull teeth.

This forest was a slim branch of the Trollshaws, whose outskirts lay about twenty miles away, Glorfindel judged the height of the sun an hour past its zenith. He did not wish to be so near their enemies at night, so when they reached the heath that separated this wood from the Trollshaws they would make their bivouac.

~.~

The argent moon was young and the stars were pale in a black sky when the Captain returned from his rounds to find Elrohir sprawled on the ground, idly caressing Hûenon's ears between bites of travel-bread.

"How are the Laiquendi faring?" he asked.

Elrohir glanced up from his food. "Oh, they have not started yet."

Glorfindel smiled and sat cross-legged on the ground. The Green-Elves separated themselves for even from the Grey-Elves and the other _Úmanyar_ , preferring to stay rigid to their own custom. They practiced rituals unique among the Kindreds before the night of battle, an eerie ceremony that Glorfindel had found disconcerting at first.

"I believe they choose the hour of moonrise," he informed the young Elf, and whistled to Hûenon, tossing him a crust of Elrohir's bread that the crossbreed devoured eagerly and wagged his long tail for more. Glorfindel tossed another crust so it landed by Elladan, and let the hound trouble his master.

Elrohir removed his food from Glorfindel's long reach. "Is there any likelihood of you giving your own fare to Hûenon?"

"The very slightest." Glorfindel stretched out his legs on the turf, leaning on his elbows. The moon was so silver, the crescent of the gods to his eyes. Valossë had fancied the moon, but she had loved the sun much and more. When the mountain peaks were starting to glow as Arien's boat sailed higher and higher to clear them, she would clutch his arm in quivering excitement….

 _Warm brown eyes laughed at him, aglow with playfulness. They were large, with a droll glint that he could see plainly in the tawny ring around the darker iris._

 _"Oh Laurëfindil!" she called down to him, crouching on the edge. He was pulling himself up laboriously, clinging the mountainside as he dangled above emptiness. Sweat trickled into his eyes. Her pale hair was tousled with the high winds as she offered him her hand. Afraid to offset her balance and send them both down, he refused it, and a few minutes later sitting beside as they swung their legs over the abyss._

 _Below the grasses of Tumladen whispered and surged, a green sea of summer grasslands._

 _Here, sitting on this ledge, they were level with the highest spire of glittering Gondolin, but if they stood they rose above it, crowned King and Queen of the Eagle's Eyrie._

 _Valossë brushed back straight wisps of hair from her face, panting. Above them, the Echoriad towered still higher and higher, brushing the fleecy clouds._

 _The sun was very warm on their faces….._

"Dear Válar." murmured Elrohir in awestruck tones by his side.

The Forest Children had gathered themselves into a single group. Around them, the other Kindreds watched, as their dance began beneath the horned moon.

Moonlight glittered on a lithe melee. Leather armor reflected, knives were spinning dervishes, shattering shards of light. In the eerie light of the waxing moon, all was uncannily distinct. Liquid shadows slid and glided: the Laiquendi moved with feral forest grace and the moon gleamed overall.

~.~

"Elladan, wake up."

Few had slept at all, and it was midnight by the mark of the moon. His brother stirred and leaped to his feet. All around, silent preparations were underway. Ten guards would remain at the camp with the horses. The rest would proceed on foot to the center of the beech woods. Elrohir could see it across the heath, in the cold glare, the smooth beech boles shone. The trees on the outskirts threw long shadows over the grass, reaching away into the sky.

Elladan gave a low whistle. "Hûenon, to me!"

The wiry hound took a moment to appear, wending its way through the groups. Elladan ruffled his ears. "Hûenon, you must heed me. The trolls are dangerous, chiefly for a dog. You must take care not to be flattened."

The dog whined in agreement and Elladan stood up and began searching through the small haversack in which the twins shared their belongings. "Elrohir, your armguard." He tossed the leather piece over and began to string his bow. "You have broadheads," he added, watching Elrohir go over his arrows. "Only long bodkins can pierce troll-hide."

"We shall see," answered Elrohir, nettled at the arrogance in his brother's tone.

"Make haste," hissed a female Silvan Elf, passing by them. "Lord Glorfindel has the companies assembling."

Elladan looked up. "Many thanks, Tawarian."

She was gone into the shadows, a lean, lithe form. Elrohir stood up, straightening out his sword-belt. "You had better come along. You're the bait, remember?"

The night was dark under the shadowy branches of the beeches, and the Elves proceeded apace and silently.

These deep northern woods were heavy with the silence of manless nature. All was shadowy, but high above old branches creaked as the swayed in the wind.

At first, troll-stench was only a vestige upon the night breeze, but it steadily grew stronger. After a march of several miles, Glorfindel stopped them wordlessly. They were on the brink of a deep dell, sharply sloping like a cup, with white flowers showing pale among the dark blades of grass. He laid out a great leather bag he had carried for the past miles, and in the glint of the moon, the cruel iron spikes of caltrops. Elrohir and Elladan came forward with the others, taking up a few and scattering them into the dip, mindful to leave a small part untouched for Elladan to stand on. As they bent over their task, Elrohir whispered. "Keep out of harm's way." Elladan did not answer. When the bag was empty and the warriors had taken their positions, Glorfindel ordered softly. "Play your game, Elladan."

Elladan cast him a hard glance and slid down into the dene. His brother, standing in the trees, saw him pause, reluctant to break the inviolate silence that hung over the woods.

It was a stillness that gnawed at his insides, made him afraid. A cloud covered the face of the moon and the forest sunk into darkness.

Elladan called out, his voice weak in the quiet. "Help! Help!"

Elrohir looked out into the hollow, as a sliver of moonlight made Elladan visible to him. His cries for aid seemed as dismal as the baying of far-away wolves.

"He needs to be more forceful," came a mutter from the foliage above his head. As if Elladan had heard Tawarian's scorn, his voice took on an urgent edge, interspersed with groans.

Elrohir threw himself on the ground, pressing his ear to the moss. Far away, he heard unrest, and night whispers spoke of broken trees and bruised saplings.

A heavy footstep sounded so loud he winced but did not break his concentration. It was rolled towards him, a message carried by the twisted roots at his command.

Then another, a slow pace that shook the ground and set all the roosting birds trembling. More joined the first, a terrible loudness that well-nigh deafened him.

Now it was growing close, close enough to be heard without the aid of the trees. Elladan's lusty shouts redoubled.

Elrohir sat up. There was the thud of the trolls' footsteps and the crack of branches he would hear without the aid of trees. He did not draw his sword yet, for the moonlight reflecting off the blade might give them away.

It was nearing the grim hour, the final dark before dawn. Glorfindel had chosen the time well.

There was a guttural snarl. "Elf-flesh. I smells it."

"Nah, you don't, you liar!"

"I'm all for looking 'round. Ain't had nothing for three lousy days but deer-meat!"

The stench was growing, sullying the night air with uncouth words. The stink of rotting flesh clung heavily to the coarse hair that matted these hill-trolls.

The trees were standing in ranks, it seemed, silent warriors armed in leaf and bark, and the sight heartened him.

Elladan made one last pitiful cry for help and stood still, every muscle tense and hard.

The trolls burst from the trees, small eyes fastening on the lithe figure that crouched, ready to run like the fallow deer.

With greedy, imprudent steps, lured by the promise of sweet Elvish flesh, they stumbled down the hollow. Elladan leaped to the brink with whip-crack speed and drew his sword.

Bellowing cries of pain reverberated through the tiny glade, but before they were fully uttered, the Elven warriors ringed the trolls round in a full circle.

The sharp edges of the caltrops had done their work, piercing the thick sole of the troll feet. All were limping, roaring in pain and some were on the ground, where they could only find more pain.

The warriors did not close in. They remained on the brink, thrusting back any troll who sought to force their way past. But as the sky lightened, the efforts of the monsters became more desperate, and harder to repulse.

Elrohir leaped back, feinting to the left in the dim grey light, as the spiked club crashed down a shade away from his foot. _Brúnalang_ hissed forward in a lunge and drew back stained with black blood.

His ears rang with the troll's roar. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something hiss end-over-end and then was lost from sight.

There was a gush of warmth. He could not spare the time to look. Searing white agony bloomed through his body. _Brúnalang_ was weighted with millstones.

The baton bore down on him. He leaped back, lunging at the troll with a foreswing. A spike scraped across his cuirass, slicing the leather deeper and deeper. It had not touched skin before Elrohir threw himself back.

The troll stumbled, caught off balance and Elrohir pitched himself to his feet, and let _Brúnalang_ bite deep in the troll's leg.

It roared, looming above him, a vast, stony hill of loathsome strength. Malicious yellow eyes glared down at him.

Crushing pain throbbed through his skull. His vision went black for a terrible second, and he found himself on one knee, _Brúnalang_ thrust out in front of him. He tried to stand and dropped again.

The truncheon came down ago. _Brúnalang_ shivered in his hands and wedged fast in the wood of the bludgeon. Pain seared through his abdomen likes a hot iron, and his wits conceded to the torment, stultifying him. Vague thoughts flitted through his head. _Brúnalang's_ hilt was plucked from his hands as the troll raised the club again.

 _It is just a moment in time._

 _Leave it._

Agony flooded through his body. He climbed to his feet and snatched an arrow from his belt. Gore-smirched fingers left prints upon the wood of the bow as he notched the arrow and loosed it. Blood trickled into his eyes. The arrow went wild, and the broadhead point stuck fast in the grey hide of the arm. The troll looked at the arrow with faint confusion, and grunted, raising the club above his head for a killing blow.

He almost could have laughed. _Oh gods, what a fool._

"Elrohir!" There was a fierce shout. "Elrohir!"

The pain was throbbing, dimming the voice. He could not understand. The club was filling in his sight, bearing down on him inexorably.

Searing bursts of fiery anguish intensified, the bloody muscle quivered, his consciousness ebbed. _Embrace pain, keep awake._

He rolled on to his side, feeling the ground shiver under the impact. The troll pulled out his club, tufts of grass and dirt clinging to the spikes.

Fire eating away at his ribcage. Wild cinders, embers crawling through his side, consuming him in raw anguish.

Darkness was creeping in to swallow him, creeping over to soften the edges of flaring pain. _I don't want to die. But I judge that I am ready._

~.~

The sounds of hooves wakened Itarille, and dressing quickly, she ran down. The morning was cool; damp and misty. Through the weaving fogs, the sky was grey. Below in the flagged yard, glossy bays and grey palfreys danced and stamped, lathered with foam though the sun had not risen.

The company had returned. Celebrían and Elrond were conversing earnestly with Lord Erestor and other members of the Council. Arwen stood to one side. She was young yet and was clearly not in womanhood. A hunting bow was strapped over her shoulder yet the quiver was half full.

Beside her was her escort, green-eyed Calwen, who left her lady's side with a glad cry and embraced Itarille.

At last, pulling away, she took her sister firmly by the shoulders. "You look well."

"And you look better!" laughed Itarille. Calwen was younger than her by two score years and displayed interest in all things Itarille disliked. She was tall, an able warrior, practical in her ways and adverse to prolonged songs and stories.

"We went wolf-hunting," she announced, motioning to her horse, a powerful flame-colored chestnut, with several grey pelts on his back. "The wolves were harrying us on the return journey, so Lady Arwen and I hunted a small number down. They will make good bedspreads."

Itarille shuddered. "I could not sleep under them."

"I could," declared Calwen. "You have blood on you. I have not had time to clean my knives."

Itarille closed her eyes and tried not to look down. The reek of wolves and blood was heavy and the other horses were shying away from Calwen's stallion.

"He did what?" Elrond's voice was dangerously calm. Itarille paused, glancing covertly towards the corner of the yard.

"Your son led out the apprentices to the Trollshaws without the knowledge of either Council. Lord Glorfindel has taken his place as Captain of the Guard. The twins are with him as they launch another attack."

Celebrían sighed. Her blue eyes, renowned for their bright incisiveness of glance, were strangely weary. These tidings seemed to have aged her. Itarille felt a wave of sympathy for the proud Lady. She had many worries to weigh her down. "Very well," she said at last. "Many thanks, Lord Erestor, for telling us straight away. But we can do nothing. until they return. How are the warriors of this ill-fated sortie?"

"Calharn remains in the Healing Wing, along with a few others. The rest suffered comparatively small wounds."

"Thank the Válar for their kindness. We will speak to the War Council later. Please alert them to assemble at noon."

Erestor bowed and left, and very soon Calwen and Itarille were left alone, besides the dark-haired daughter of the Star.

Arwen was standing beside her filly. The black of her braids created soft shadows under her cheekbones. Her eyes were grey, grey of the ocean the instant before dawn's first rays strike the water, but with the lustrous sheen of polished opals. She was outfitted in a collared cape, but underneath the hoary garment, she wore green and brown: hunting clothes.

Itarille smiled quietly at her. "I have not seen the blue roan before in our stables."

Arwen patted the dappled coat fondly. "She is a gift from my grandfather. Is she not beautiful?"

"She is indeed," answered Itarille sincerely. "I doubt that her like could be gotten again for love or money. I presume her stride is good?"

"It is faultless. I have never ridden such a horse."

The filly nosed her lady's arm and Arwen laughed, leading her off to the stables.

Calwen put her arm around her older sister's shoulder, and they went through the oaken doors to the House.

"Sit down," commanded Itarille when they had reached the silence of her room. "My neck is strained from looking up."

Calwen laughed and dropped down onto the bed. "I have stolen all your height, have I?"

Itarille ignored the jibe. "You must tell all about your journey."

"It was uneventful, I fear. Save for the wolf-chase, there was nothing of consequence the whole journey. I dwelt with Lothlórien's March-wardens and met no one nor hunted anything of consequence."

"Really? Well, I have met someone."

Calwen smiled patiently. "Have you indeed?"

"Elrohir, son of Elrond," announced Itarille, apprehensively eyeing her sister's face.

"A Lord, sister?" Calwen smirked You have set your sights high."

Itarille slapped her hand playfully. "Fie on you, Calwen!"

~.~

Celebrían was slumped over the table, her face hidden in her hands. "I can't believe it. I truly can't," she said, her voice muffled. "Why would he do such a thing?"

Elrond made no answer.

"It was foolish to go to Lórien," she added, raising her head. "We had no right too, not with the land in so much turmoil. But we still act as though the Watchful Peace yet continues. At the fear of sounding as a vile mother, I am glad he is gone. I need time to think over what I must say to him. I am also glad Glorfindel stripped him of his rank." she continued fiercely.

"Silver One, let me speak the truth to you."  
" _Melethron,_ I am not inclined towards truth now, save if it dulls my anger. I see from your eyes, it will not. May we speak later?"  
"Yes, indeed." Elrond murmured. Celebrían unfasted the cream colored cape, shook out her silver hair and left the room. Elrond followed her retreating back with grey eyes. He was horrified as she upon hearing of their son's folly, but the news there had been no deaths had softened the blow for him.

Rising, he brushed past the curtains to stand on the open balcony. The morning wind was fresh, strong and cool, and as it rushed past him, he felt clearer in mind and rested.

There was a knock. " _Adar_ , may I come in?" Before he could reply Arwen stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

Elrond loved all his children dearly, but from the moment he had seen the baby girl a thousand years ago, with a thick head of black hair and large grey eyes, Arwen had always had a separate dwelling in his great heart. She hugged him with a sigh. "I heard about Elladan. _Adar_ , it's not my concern ….but what are we going to do?"

Elrond lifted her chin and smiled reassuringly at her. "You, little Star, must do nothing, save to succor your brother when he arrives. He will find a hard time with your mother and me and with the Greater and Lesser Councils. So you must stand by his side, you and Elrohir both."

"I will," promised Arwen gravely. "Do not fear on that score. I...has not Lord Glorfindel punished him?"

"Arwen, I do not feel I should speak about your brother's wrongdoing with you. But since you will hear it soon nevertheless, I might as well be the one to tell it. He led a group of apprentice soldiers into one of the most fearful places in the Trollshaws. Thank Erù none died, but Elladan made a grave error, one that even humbling cannot fully expunge."

"I see," she murmured, going towards the door with her black head drooping.

~.~

Ararochath are Horses of Valinor from which the Nimrochath (S. "Elven Horses") are descended.

 _Melethron-_ male lover.


	3. Chapter III: Those Who See

**A\N. I want to thank MistressofImladris for her _immense_ help in the next five chapters (including this one): I would not have posted if she hadn't had the patience to go through it. **

~.~

Arwen restored the book to the fireside alcove. Outside, she could hear the eager cry of spring larks and the murmuring call of wild doves. Through the full-length windows, there were long drifts of bluebells sparkling in the dark boles of the trees.

Spring was once more in the world. And as Kementári sang herself into the woodlands, the Elves joined the song, all save she.

Her heart was too heavy to rejoice. Her brothers had often made forays, she had often been with them, and they had always come back with a scar to thrill the maidens and a tale to delight the Elf-children. No more, no less, but this was different. Although reports varied and were slightly changed under the misapprehension that tender maidens' ears could not hear such things, she felt sure that some of the trolls roaming the birch woods were Olog-hai, a large and clever breed of troll.

~.~

"Get him away! Get him away!" shouted Glorfindel, blade crossed against the mighty hammer of the Troll Chieftain. "Elladan! Get him away!"

Elladan raised himself on his elbow, grey eyes dazed. Beside him, the limp form of Elrohir stretched on the blood-soaked grass. Although the caltrop had moved too fast to be seen, blood gushed out of his brother's body, dark in the dawning light.

Elladan writhed towards his brother, but he had not the strength to stand. The golden-haired warrior came as a flame, but dawn came swifter. Arien's boat sailed higher and higher to clear the trees, and the trolls could not withstand the glory of the Sun Queen.

The club was raised above the troll's head for a crushing blow upon both sons of Elrond when the first light broke through the trees, dazzling gold and bright.

A streak of grey sped down the club, widening and broadening, and the troll stood unmoving, bewilderment on its dull-witted face.

The hands, then the arms, then the head and then a full flood of golden light broke through the birch leaves and the glade went silent. The roars of the trolls faded away into the glens, echoes outliving their masters.

Glorfindel stumbled, tears trickling down his cheeks. He had lost many a warrior, he had lost many a friend. This newfound hope that had saved him the lives of those he had counted as sons brought him to his knees.

"Oh dawn, we bless thee and praise thee

Arien, golden Queen of the day star

Shine upon us brightly from daybreak

To the ending of the day!" he whispered, a soft prayer his mother had taught him.

The sun dazzled him through his tears. He climbed to his feet and went besides the twin sons of Elrond. Elladan was conscious, but Elrohir was insensible, eyes closed. Blood trickled from his nose and stained a dark red patch on his stomach, just above the belt. A curved spike of the caltrop was still visible, protruding in iron contrast from the once-green garment and pale skin.

"We conquered!" Tawarian's fiercely triumphant voice sounded-she had climbed up onto the stooping shoulders of a petrified enemy. Her pale green eyes ranged over the glade, alight with conquest. She did not look to the ground, she did not see the wounded. She only saw the heads of a vanquished foe, she only saw the black blood on her blade, she only saw her comrades that stood and did not lie in grievous hurt.

Glorfindel did not grudge her joy. She was young and hot blood still pulsed through her veins. Nonetheless, it angered him to hear the rejoicing, as he strove to staunch Elrohir's blood.

"Avadion," he called to a silver-haired _Laiquendë_ , one of the hardiest of his warriors. "Go swift and bring back the healers from the camp!" ¹

He turned to Elrohir. He dared not remove the caltrop, it was all that kept this youth from bleeding to death. Instead, he cradled Elrohir's head on his lap, and tore off strips of his cloak to bandage the wound, keeping the protruding spike of the caltrop motionless.

"Elladan," he whispered, turning his head without moving his body. The oldest son was staring at Elrohir, but Glorfindel was glad to see the cloud slowly clearing from his eyes. He had a head-wound, blood matted his black hair.

"I am here." His voice was dull and strained.

"Ask for water."

"He cannot drink," protested Elladan faintly.

"Not for him. For you. You have lost much blood. I see that, so do not say nay."

Elladan was trembling when he rose, too weak to argue. Glorfindel saw that he was given a skin of water.

Elrohir stirred, murmuring something. Glorfindel bent down, till the faint breathing of Elrohir was loud in his ear.

"Itarille…..I'm sorry for breaking her harp," he whispered, a crescent of silver flickering briefly beneath his lids.

Glorfindel rubbed the young one's cold hands between his own. "She forgives you. It is all made right." he encouraged gently.

"'Dan?" he queried, using the childish name that Glorfindel had not heard for thousands of years.

"Elladan is near." Indeed, the other twin had come stumbling back to crouch by Elrohir's side, saying nothing. Hûenon whined at his master's side but Elladan paid him no heed.

A distant horn sounded, and then its blast rang through the woodlands clearly. The healers were coming. Warriors cradled their wounded comrades and prayed for swiftness.

There was the dull sound of many hooves and the Healers entered the glade, led by Avadion.

A young Elf-maid was first to dismount, and she hurried to Elrohir's side, sighing, "Oh, my friend."

Her face was growing tenser as she saw the protrusion of the caltrop. "I can't heal this," she said, shaking her head and rising her eyes to Glorfindel. They were wide and grey, terrified eyes. "I can't heal this." she repeated. "I don't know how."

Glorfindel put a hand upon her shoulder. "Gwindel, all will be well. Find a healer who can."

A tear trickled down her cheek as she fled to do Glorfindel's bidding.

"Gwindel thinks it is the end." said Elladan slowly, staring beyond his brother's body to the dark green of the forest.

"Gwindel is young." encouraged Glorfindel. "She does not know all."

"She and Elrohir studied as healers together. She knows as much as he does, and he is a great healer." answered Elladan, but his voice was rising to a higher pitch.

"Hush!" answered Glorfindel urgently. "Keep your voice to a murmur. Now Elladan, listen to me."

Empty grey eyes were turned to him, and hollow answers were given to him. Something hounded Elladan. Shame, anger….guilt? Did he and Elrohir have some conflict unresolved, that now he feared would remain so forever?

Glorfindel heard quick breathing and saw Gwindel come, followed swiftly by Amdirion, a healer whose only better was Nestànu.

~.~

Standing on the open balcony, Celebrían lifted her head sharply, a gasp of pain escaping her lips. _Far off in the hallways of her fëa, a weak voice was calling. She withdrew from the sunlight and hurried down corridors that were hung with dark gossamer veils of mourning._

Elrohir? Why was the House thus in mourning? Surely…..but no, never! Never, a mother's heart protested, but a warrior's instinct spoke more truly.

Celebrían closed her eyes and retreated back, repeating the first lesson of foresight that her mother had ever taught her when first she taught her of the arts of _indemmar_ and _òsanwe_. Even the Wise cannot tell all.

 _In her mother-sight, she make haste down the wide hallways she knew well, and found the windows shuttered against light and veils hung over the rich tapestries._

 _The House sat in mourning for the son of the House's Lord._

 _The stairs to the Healing Wing fled under her feet as she ascended. Her youngest son was lying alone in a bed, face waxen-pale in death._

 _It was death that hovered in the room, she could smell it, feel it. She could see it, lying in the bed, taking the form of her son as if he was still there and not wandering the Dead Halls._

 _Blood stained the white coverlets. The trolls had taken their weregild ere they were slain._

 _Celebrían had seen death before. She had smelled it, heard it and touched it. But never had any died so dear and yet so unknown to her._

 _She sat down on the edge of the bed, felt it dip under her weight. Elrohir loved books, yellowed tomes of Elvish history. He would sit in the library for days if she had allowed it. He loved all the gentle arts of healing, save music. The one peaceful thing she loved he cared not for._

 _She had never understood him, like she never understood Elrond. But she loved them all the same, loved the soul the dead body on the bed had once encased._

 _It was a husk now, nothing to love, nothing to understand. Not even the disordered braid could remind her of her son now…_

" _Naneth_?"

A cold sweat was on her brow as she pulled herself to the world of the living. The balustrade was biting into her hands, so hard had she gripped it. It was a moment before she could turn towards Arwen. "Yes, little Star?"

Arwen was dressed in riding clothes, her hair pulled back, and the cast of her mouth bespoke determination. "I am….I want to go to Elrohir."

Celebrían looked the most peaceful of her children in the eye. "I want to go to Elrohir too." she said. "The battle should be over, if Glorfindel lives up to his repute. I will speak to Elrond, and we shall leave within the hour."

"You will come with me?"

"I am a mother." said Celebrían simply. "A mother does not forsake her children."

Arwen looked very grave. "Foresight was on you." she said, and did not ask.

Celebrían breathed deeply. "A foresight was on me, and it was grim indeed. But take comfort, dear-heart, for even the _Wise cannot tell all_!"

~.~

"Calwen, you just returned!"

"Arwen had requested my presence. As a warrior sworn by the sword to stay with my lady, I must obey."

"Cal, I missed you so!" Itarille reproached.

Calwen shrugged and buckled on her baldric. "I shall return soon."

"To leave again!" she exclaimed. "Lady Arwen is as restless as any young one has the right to be! You stay here for a week or more and then are gone again. And I get lonely, Calwen."

Calwen sighed. "Itarille, I am a young one as well. Though older than Arwen, I am still restless for new lands and undertakings. I cannot stay here, locked up with harps and viols and old scrolls. You know that!" She paused for breath. "Itarille, you cannot come with me on this venture, but join us hunting someday. You will not be lonely then. We spend merry days together, and you will learn much and more."

"You have been trying to persuade me for a long time," answered Itarille tartly. "I don't belong in the wild. But," she added, softening her tone. "I'll come with you. I promise. However, it must be after Tuiléris." ²

Calwen hugged her sister gleefully. "Of course! Sister, you will not regret this, I swear!"

Caught up in Calwen's enthusiasm, Itarille laughed. "I am sure that'll be so."

When her sister left, she turned to her harp, flexing her hand in an attempt to loosen it before she played. Its stiff joints plagued her still. A sheet of paper lay in front of her, words scrawled out.

 _Ai! Vàna Everyoung, give us your love_

 _May the sweet spring days endure for long!_

 _Praise to thee, Vàna, may all be reborn_

 _And may the flowers most loved by thee_

 _Blossom long and bright ere winter's bite!_

Itarille stared at the paper for a moment. She did not want her prayer to end with winter, but with the hope of spring. Finally, she sat down, dipped her quill in the black ink, but the words that she began to etch onto the thick, cream-colored paper was neither a prayer nor an accolade to spring.

 _But sleep, love, safe-guarded by hills and pine_

 _Summer days dawn bright, when we rise as one_

 _And down through long, green grass, we will run._

Itarille poised the quill to blot out the doggerel, but something restrained her. "It is a meaningless verse." she said firmly to herself, and raised her hand up over the parchment, back to where the tribute for Vàna was written. She had to finish it by today, and set the melody for it as well. She had no time for daydreams.

~.~

"Celebrían, this proposal is folly!"

Celebrían's jaw was jutting out in clear avowal that this was a folly she would follow through with. Elrond knew the futility of attempting to persuade his wife once her mind was made. "I am well aware that you cannot accompany us, that the realm must be seen too no matter the cost, but I must see my sons. The battle is completed now."

Elrond turned, gripping his wife's shoulders as he looked into stubborn blue eyes. "And if the battle is lost? What then? How can I lose all once more?"

"The battle is not lost." averred Celebrían. "But Elrohir is hurt. He may be dying."

"He is my son as well."

"I know," she said softly. "And one of must be with him. Shall you or I?"

"You go," said Elrond thickly. "You have had the mother-sight. Perchance the Válar will it that you will be by his side."

She turned to go, but he caught her hand as she was leaving. "I will follow soon."

Celebrían kissed his forehead. "I pray you do, my dearest love."

She hurried down, meeting Calwen in the stables. "Are you prepared to ride again?"

Calwen clasped her sword in one hand and laid her right fist to her heart, bowing her head shortly. "Always."

"Very good."

Arwen entered a moment. Although sobered by fear for her brothers, she held an inborn joy rarely quenched. She looked around with a smile. "Shall we go?" She looked to her blue roan. " _Naneth_ , do you think that Mithdal is fit to ride yet again?"

Celebrían looked to her own horse. "Why do you not ask her?"

Arwen stroked the stippled muzzle. "I think she is. She is young, you see, and eager."

Calwen was already astride Belan. The stallion whinnied, eager at the scent of the mares and the apple his mistress gave to him. She trotted the horse out the stables and stood in the court, waiting for her lady and her lady's mother.

The sun was clear but without overmuch warmth, and the cool breezes raised the hair on her arms and prickled her skin with chills.

April rains would be coming, she reflected, as she led the company under the architrave and along the narrow bridge, down towards the Loudwater Ford.

From the window, Itarille watched them go. "Farwell." she murmured. "May all your ways be green and gold." Worry creased her brow. She was not so war-innocent that she was not aware that dark times loomed. Seeing Calwen returned had brought her relief. But she was gone again.  
 _The lives of warriors did not endure long._

¹ _And the Eldar deemed that the dealing of death, even when lawful or under necessity, diminished the power of healing_. ~ (Of the Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, _Morgoth's Ring_ )

² Vána, in Qenya ( the earlier version of Quenya) is the eponymous Valië of April: the word _Tuiléris_ can be applied to both Vána and April, her month.


	4. Chapter IV: The Darkness Is Not Done

Glorfindel heard the ring of Tawarian's long knives entering their scabbards and saw her slipping out of the forest around the edge of the forest. The trees were all a dark, dusky green; the fern below them caught in the low light of the dying sun.

"Tawarian, recount," he said with a sigh. Although he had placed no strict orders upon his warriors to remain within the camp, neither had he ordered any spies or scouts. But, knowing the Green-Elf instinct was invaluable, that the ears and eyes of the forest were at their command, he bid her tell.

She looked like a child caught with her hand among the sweet-cakes for a fleeting minute. Then straightened and met his eyes, speaking in a guarded tone. "Captain, I have naught of import to recount." She lifted her eyes warily upwards, as though the very trees she loved were hovering over her, malignant and alive.

Glorfindel followed her gaze. The forest was dark at sunset, the green of the leaves clinging to the last light they could find. The sleepy murmurs of roosting birds and the rustles caused by a spring breeze were all he could hear. The Green-Elf stood on one foot, arms by her side and head forward, and he caught the questioning murmur. "The trees fear."

Abruptly, she snapped back into position. "I deemed, my Captain, that something vulpine lurks here, something with ill-intention and much malice. I entered the woodlands in an attempt to seek it out."

"Did you find aught?" he asked seriously.

She answered huskily. "I found little and less." All the same, he noted a shiver traveled involuntarily down her spine, shaking her infinitesimally.

He put his hands on her shoulders, locking her fierce, green-eyed gaze in his. "Tawarian, tell me the truth," he commanded sternly.

Her eyes flitted around like frightened birds, and then she stood on tip-toe and whispered in his ear. "Warlocks."

Glorfindel drew back, his eyes bemused, but a lurking fear was curtained in the blue depths. "Tawarian, you speak of what has not defiled-"

She was rigid. "Ever do the trees speak truth. Recall the old saw, my lord _. When the gyrfalcon turns from Frozen Sea, Death laughs in the forest, and wise woodsmen flee_."

"You place too much import on old wives' tales," he gently rebuked.

"I saw the gyrfalcon," she said. "Its wings were red in the rising sun. It flew from Forodwaith, to escape a growing evil. It is a necromancer from the North that is in these woods."

She continued her voice a whisper. "I am not so young, that I did not know that Mithrandir once when to the Fortress of Angmar, where the Witch-King waged war on Arnor. And I know that the folk of Forodwaith are not so hardy that evil cannot corrupt and black magic not destroy. He told you, my Captain. You are and still remain his old friend and he spoke to you of his mission. Do you not see?"

"You are wise for your time under the sun, but you speak of ill things, Tawarian."

She looked away and then back to him. "The brighter the light, the darker the shadow it casts. If we do not want to see the darkness, we must become it. Elsewise, there is no other way than to see and speak of dark things."

~.~

The flute dangling from her hand, Itarille watched a clamorous company of rooks in the highest branches of a willow. The shadows began to lengthen across the green lawns, and the golden sunlight retreated slowly. When at last it hovered only among the highest branches of the willow, some rooks began to soar, those who might still receive the warm luster upon their wings. The dying sun imparted, for a moment, a hue of deep red gold to their sable plumage, and then that too was gone. Arien's vessel faded away into palest gold. Outside this sun-kissed pale, the blue sky grew darker. Twilight came stealing on. The rooks grew silent.

There was a brisk knock on her door. "Itarille, have you written the orison?"

Itarille flew from the window, snatching up the roll of parchment as she raced towards the door. A minstrel was standing there, dark-haired and young. "Overlook my tardiness, Lindir." she panted. "I was distracted,"

"Deranged hits nearer the mark," he answered, taking the scroll she pushed at him.

 _Everyoung, with your love this earth adorn_

 _So the sweet spring days may endure long._

 _O, praise to thee, Vàna, may all be reborn._

 _Upon waiting Arda bestow your spring song_

 _Command the flowers to blossom in splendor_

 _And open their buds to the new-born light_

 _Give their beauty, fresh, fragrant and tender_

 _So we may gather their garlands so bright_

 _Like the flowers, so do our hearts bloom_

 _Under your song. May spring long prevail_

 _O Tàri-Laisi, O Mistress of Life, reassume_

 _Your reign, then shall our hearts never fail._

He nodded approvingly and then his eyes strayed further down the page, before glancing up questioningly at her. "' _But sleep, love, safeguarded by hills and pine_

 _Summer days dawn bright when we rise as one_

 _And down through long, green grass, we will run_.' Was that meant for me?" he asked, looking up with a droll gleam in his eye.

Itarille felt the hot blood rush to her face. "No!" she stammered, snatching wildly at the parchment. "No, it's for no one! Only give me it!"

Lindir shook his head. "No, no. I must have it now. You know that the festival is within five days, and we must practice the song."

With sudden sympathy, he creased the thick cream-hued page and tore off the offending piece. Itarille crumpled it in her hands, hoping her eyes could convey her gratitude. Lindir tapped her shoulder. "Be with us soon," he warned. "Your viol is needed."

"I will be," she promised. Once Lindir had departed with her song, she took the scrap of parchment and tore it up before casting it into the fireplace. There was no fire, but as soon as the nights grew cold enough, the proof of her besottment would be the first to be destroyed.

~.~

"Amdirion, how long before Elrohir can travel?"

The two Elves stood outside the tent, in the gloomy twilight, close together.

The healer shook his head. "My Lord, although his condition is now stable, I do not think travel would be wise. Not for another day. His body will heal itself enough to sustain movement by afternoon, but even then, the pace must be slow."

"And the others?" queried Glorfindel abruptly, feeling a sudden stab of guilt for neglecting his comrades.

"Two are in dire straits. I fear the Hand of Mandos will take one at least before the dawn. Cúldir's arm is broken, but the others only need rest for a night and they will be as hale as ever before."

"I need to keep the field, Amdirion. And I cannot in good conscience leave them here. They must leave! I cannot spare the warriors to guard the camp."

"And if you move any of the three, they will surely die."

Glorfindel's eyes shattered piercing shards of blue. "Amdirion, if I tell you they will die-"

"Then they will die by the attack of this unknown or on the road. Their bodies will quickly heal themselves, enough so that by dawn they may travel-but not before."

"Well," said the Elf-Lord softly. "If there is no choice, my duty is made simple. We take the plunge, my friend." So saying, he strode away, towards where the unwounded of his warriors stood or sat, clustering in small huddles.

Now that Tawarian had spoken to him of her fear, he began to feel a slight oppression in the twilight around him. The silent forest had felt before mild and mossy, but now he saw shadows in the starlight.

He summoned his chiefs. They were under him, appointed by him before Elladan had taken command, and he trusted them with his life.

There was Avadion, a brave _Laiquendë_ , a skilled and capable captain, but soft-spoken. He was as tall as a young tree, lithe and immensely strong. He wielded a great war-bow, _Cùthon_. His hair was silver, and his eyes of deep and piercing blue.

The other captain, Helnor, was a Noldo. His eyes were grey, and his hair so black it held a tinge of blue, like the glossy plumage of a raven's wing. He was skilled in all arts of the sword and in strategies. He was smaller than Avadion by a head, but was broader in the shoulders and even stronger.

The last was Laineth the Grey-Elf, exceedingly swift of foot. She was the finest runner Glorfindel had yet seen, she could outstrip in the fleet winds in their courses. In races between the Elven kingdoms, she had proven her own at a young age. Now, she was a leader in Imladris' guard. Her speed and suppleness were her chief weapons: she armored herself only with small blades and did not use bow or broad-sword.

Glorfindel summoned them to the outskirts of the camp, one of each of the Elven Kindreds, the Fair-Elf, the Deep-Elf, the Grey-Elf, and the Green-Elf.

Some measure of pride took hold of Glorfindel, and some measure of regret also, for he saw the Kindreds that had warred with each other gathered together, bound not because of light but of darkness from which they must hold together, or wither away alone.

He pushed the thought aside and spoke to them. "We won an easy victory today."

"Too easy, my Captain," said Avadion, voicing Glorfindel's thoughts aloud.

Laineth echoed him. "Aye, too easy."

"I agree with you, and it is for that reason we have gathered here to hold counsel. In whose cadre is Tawarian?"

Laineth nodded her head. "She is mine, the cadre of scouts and runners."

"So you know her ability?"

"She is blessed with a double measure of plant-speech and instinct. I trust her judgment, though she is young."

"So, if she speaks of warlocks, you will believe her?"

"She has never given me cause for doubt," said Laineth firmly, but there was a pall cast on her face at the dread-word _warlock_.

Helnor spoke. "With the years, our ability to understand the growing things have waned. May she not have misinterpreted the message?"

"No." Avadion cut his words short. "Those who love delving and digging may have dulled their ear, but the Forest Elves understand the words of the wood."

"Peace!" Glorfindel said sternly. "I, for one, believe Tawarian, and for this reason, we are holding council. I elect to scout these woods, not using enough scouts to weaken our defenses, but enough to ensure our safety for the night."

"One or two scouts cannot hold off a warlock," said Avadion.

"No, but can eight or nine warriors? It is not my intention to scatter them, but instead keep them in a body, with one runner to spare, that will come back to the camp for aid if we need it."

Laineth's eyes were narrowing as she listened. "I vote aye. Who shall we take? I will go for one and Tawarian."

"One captain must remain behind, and I would rather it be you, Helnor," said Glorfindel. "You are wiser in matters of defense."

"And not so skilled in woodcraft. You may speak honestly, Captain."

"I spoke the truth," answered Glorfindel, turning to Avadion. "You and I shall go as well. Laineth, Avadion, pick two each from your cadres. I will do the same."

Glorfindel found the Elf he sought seated outside his brother's tent. As much as he hated to drag Elladan away from his brother's side, the mixture of the two Kindreds had rendered Elladan a formidable warrior, one with _Eglath_ woodcraft and _Minyar_ strength. "Elladan, I need your aid."

"I will not leave Elrohir," said Elladan dully,

Glorfindel crouched down in front of the Elf, saddened by the blank and stony gaze. Hûenon lay at his master's side, ears down in sympathy for Elladan's plight. "I need your help, Elladan," he repeated earnestly. "Please. To protect your brother."

That brought the first reaction from Elladan he had seen through the day. "How?"

"There is danger in the forest. The chiefs have chosen to meet it face to face. We take two from each cadre. I choose you and Laerion."

Elladan picked up his cuirass and followed Glorfindel, Hûenon faithfully at his heels. When Glorfindel had found Laerion, he returned to the counsel-place.

Only Laineth had not returned, but she came within minutes of Glorfindel's arrival, with her Tawarian and another Elf Glorfindel could not name.

She saluted to him as the head-captain. "I am prepared. Helnor has set all in order. Many of my cadre are under orders to obey him for the present. He has dispersed them in the woods immediately surrounding the camp, a web to inform him of whatever comes near. His force is the bastion. They will hold for a long time, for Avadion's archers are stationed in the trees, ready to rain arrows upon any unlawful creature."

"That is well," said Glorfindel, nodding. Helnor's strategies were satisfactory to him. "We have ten," he added, after surveying his company.

"There are nine dread-lords. I thought ten was a number that does not bear so unfavorable meanings," said Laineth. "The tenth is a runner to spare."

Glorfindel sighed inwardly. He understood now where Tawarian had inherited her superstitious holdings. The woods were dark and silent, as the ten made a quick way through the tangled undergrowth.

These birch glades had suffered greatly under the brutal mastery of the trolls. There were deep ruts made in the rich loam, and trees were broken and beaten down everywhere their feet turned. It made for dangerous walking, for though Elven eyes may see like cats in the dark, their gaze cannot be everywhere at once.

Behind him, Glorfindel heard the whispered consultation between captain and underling.

"The trees are afraid." breathed Tawarian suddenly.

"Do they tell you about what?" asked Laineth.

"Yes. Black spells, but they do not know where. They speak of a wolf…then of a warlock." Her voice trailed away, to return, not speaking to her mother but to the trees surrounding her. "Are they the same?"

Above them, leaves rustled softly, but Glorfindel could only catch fragments of their speech, frightened whispers afraid to speak too loud and clear.

 _The White Wolf…. ….. breaks us….slays our young ones….._ ran their sad murmurs on the night breeze, round and again, angry and all the more full of grief for their anger.

But Tawarian clearly heard more than him, for she said, "They call him the White Wolf, the Breaker, the Breath of the North. He slays their saplings, he commands the troll folk."

She stopped suddenly, enough so that Elladan, as the rear guard, stumbled heavily against her. "He comes from the North, from the realm of the Witch-King. A-"

" _Gaurhoth_ ¹," finished Elladan softly.

Her eyes sprang open. "Yes. How do you know?"

"I see him."

The trees were suddenly silent, and in the deafening quiet, a dread-spell descended upon them, one of heavy despair.

In the terrible silence, came the stealthy sound of a wolf on silken pad.

The others, unused to the spell of Maiar could fight against it only futilely. Only Glorfindel, born in the Blessed Realms, and Elladan, through whose veins coursed the blood of Melian _Tóril_ could withstand it.

Fiery eyes burned in the forest murk. Glorfindel, leaning forward, saw a wolf came, larger than nature could ever breed. Sinews writhed under its coarse fur, cruel in strength, foul in wisdom. It seemed at once misshapen and perfectly formed.

The silence echoed suddenly to the voice, raw, primal as it came from the jaws of the wolf, but there was elegance of speech, skillful inflections, and intonations, made to breed doubt and fear.

"Welcome, Firstborn."

~.~

¹ _Gaurhoth_ is Sindarin for werewolf.


	5. Chapter V: A Mother's Love

_'Heart of Fire, may your warmth bring healing to his heart. Great Earth, give your strength to his body. Western Winds, may your breath lift his spirit.'_

Celebrían's prayers were silent as she rode. The night wind lifted her hair and pulled at her cloak. Light clouds skimmed the clear, dark sky. Ahead of them, the great tapestry of trees had darkened to ghosts, and the early moon drenched their branches with pale blue. Mists weaved in and out, gliding over the damp turf under their horses' hooves.

Her own stallion, a noble blood bay, broad-chested, full in the flank and clean-limbed, pricked his ears up. Behind her, Belan and Mithdal cantered, their riders speaking in low tones with each other.

She drew a cool breath of springtide into her chest. The young beech leaves were quaking in the breeze, and the wide-spreading branches that bore them cast deep shadows.

There was a burst of laughter from behind her, at which she frowned, but did not repress. She was not certain, no, not certain of anything yet. But it seemed unseemly to disturb the stillness, for, in the hooded night, one is not sure of what company he may find himself in, and need draw no attention to his presence.

"How far, _Naneth_?" asked Arwen behind her.

Celebrían answered: "We shall reach their camp by dawn, I reckon."

"Very good."

"Yes, very good," echoed Calwen.

 _Very good_ , repeated Celebrían silently. _As if dawn is near enough_.

They rode in silence from then on. Midnight passed by cloaked in blue mists, and the grim hour drew near. Stars faded in the heavens, the moon westered over the Trollshaws.

"Is it not strange that I have neither seen nor heard a living thing since we entered this forest?" asked Calwen, her face hidden in the shadow of her hood.

Celebrían turned to her. "You voice my own thoughts. I would give much for the sight of a fox or the cry of a nighthawk."

"Hark!" Arwen raised her hand, slewing towards the north.

They sat in listening silence. The sound of their hearts and the breathing of the horses seemed loud.

From the North, came a moaning wail, that rose to a cry so desolate and so terrible it froze the blood in their veins. It grew in measure, filling their ears with a shrill shriek that echoed from all around them, and yet was far away, sidereal as the stars and as near as their heart's blood.

They had drawn their weapons, but as the scream continued, their hands grew cold. It grew in their minds, till it filled that expanse, and echoed again and again, the note never-changing but continuing.

The sword dropped from Calwen's nerveless fingers, she covered her ears with her hands, her eyes tightly shut.

Celebrían listened, her eyes wide. The keening song in her mind, it was changing, subtly altering. What had been a single note was shifting between two. The high steady shriek was beginning to take form and shape, fashioning itself into words.

She gritted her teeth against the warped song, the twisted version of the Music of the Ainur. Some inner instinct cried out not to listen to the words, not to try and understand them, but she did, half-against her will.

And the voice was gold, like sweet-flowing autumn honey, soft and wonderful. Gone was the brutal keening, the high and piercing shriek like knives slicing through her head.

It slowed her mind, thick and honeyed. Bereft of her wits, she stared like a dumb beast into the dark and understood. But it was terrible. She saw the gloom that mocked midnight, she saw the shadows in the starlight. She saw the darkness had a name, she saw the evils that slumbered. They groaned and tossed in some uneasy dream, waking, waking, waking to the destruction of Middle-Earth.

Slowly she rallied her reason, drew them back. When she did so the voice was no longer beautiful, it was a high, steady scream again.

Celebrían writhed under it. How sweetly the memory of the golden voice called her to her, a catharsis from this trenchant screech, as penetrating and painful as a blade, but the terror of the visions held her will fast.

She concentrated. The pain was physical now. Sharp knives sliced through the air and through her. Her blood bay was screaming, the terrible cry of a horse in pain. She slid off his back, hugging his head to herself. Behind her, Arwen was clutching her arms, eyes wide, but Celebrían felt less fear for her. She could withstand, she had enchanted blood in her veins, the strain of the Maiar.

Calwen, she feared for her. The Elf was crouched, her head resting on her knees, but she raised her eyes for a brief second. They were mad, wild.

Her stallion shrieked again. "No! No! I am here!" she called out, as much for her companions as for the beast. "Do not listen to the words! Do not listen to the words, listen to me!"

Arwen looked at her; Calwen did not. "Look at me, Calwen!" she shouted. The night-wind was growing stronger. It roared around her, savage and unyielding.

The scream ended.

Celebrían blinked and shook her head, like a dog flicking away a bothersome fly. The silence in her mind was deafening. The wind still carried on, but it was not powerful. Nay, a bleak, thin wind it was, like a fine sour wine, searching the marrow and bringing no bloom to the cheek.

Her blood bay was trembling, lathered in sweat, its great eyes searching hers in a memory of fear. She patted its damp flank reassuringly before kneeling by Calwen.

The sworn sword-maid of her daughter was still in her rigid position. As Celebrían tilted the unresponsive face towards her, she saw that the green eyes were wide and fixed.

"Calwen?" She let go of the chin, which fell down to the breast again. She had seen and felt the malady in Calwen's face, a madness of the spirit.

Arwen was soothing the horses. They were shuddering. Belan tried to bolt before Arwen's soft words recalled him.

"We need a fire," she said, her fingers recalling the cold of the Elf's skin. "Stay here. I will gather the wood."

"No. You know more about healing. I will gather it." answered Arwen firmly, and Celebrían saw in her eyes, her own pride and unyieldingness.

She left the place. Celebrían sat, running over all the lore her mother had taught. Healing spells Galadriel had learned from the Queen of Doriath sprang foremost to her mind.

Arwen returned in a little while, although it seemed long to her. She broke the small branches and struck a spark among dried leaves. A curl of flame licked at the leaf, and it was not long before a small, smokeless fire burned. Moving Calwen nearer, Celebrían began.

Her heart trembled: she was a warrior, not a healer. Moreover, if she spoke wrong, more harm would be done than good.

But willing or nilling, she must do it, and do it soon. She had chosen the song, a spell of rallying, to anchor the spirit and release it from its madness.

She looked at Arwen, who nodded and sat across from the fire.

Laying Calwen's head in her lap, she pressed her hands to the temples of the Elf and began.

The old words fell strange and clear from her lips, like the ringing of a crystal bell. The copse fell away from her sight, only the stars that blazed and wheeled above. Her singing changed, melded into their light, threads of burning radiance. The threads twisted into a brilliant skein, this arras of light became a soul, fashioned in a vague rendering of a body. It was shackled, weeping as it pulled at the bonds.

The song was not her own, it was silvery, celestial, and filled with greater power than her lips could fashion.

It reached a pitch of exultation; the shackles broke and fled wailing like wisps of black smoke; the soul flew free away.

Down Celebrían rushed, the air beating her face. She fell on the ground, the soul melded into Calwen's body.

Rallying the last of her strength, she leaned over and looked into Calwen's eyes. They were green, seeing.

"Miruvor, Arwen," she gasped. "Give it to her."

The trees swam before her eyes, into things dark and strange.

~.~

One Hour Before

Glorfindel read the challenge in Elladan's stiffened shoulders, his judgment clouded in anger. "Only the master of the house should bid the guests welcome."

"As such, I welcome you, young one." answered the wolf, feral eyes twin sparks in the gloom.

He pushed his way forward, _Culumaica_ in his hands. "¹ _Ñaurō_ , do you recognize me?"

Their eyes were even with each other, such was the wolf's height. It looked at him with viperish contempt, the voice low and disdainful. "Indeed, Laurëfindil, O bane of himself."

The sound of his name in the Blessed Tongue made Glorfindel flinch as it was sullied by unholy jaws. He held his sword ready to strike. This was no time for chivalry, no time to let his foe move first. The blade swung down on the thick neck.

Shadow-quick, it moved so little that the steel shore away from the coarse fur but did not touch its body.

It did not pounce, as Glorfindel anticipated, but stood crouched, jaws open and slavering slightly, a low, joyful growl rumbling in its throat, fringed tail wagging in a terrible mockery of a hound.

Glorfindel heard behind him, the ring of Laineth's knives clearing their scabbard.

"No!" he said. "No, the ¹ _gaurhoth_ is mine-"

A breathless pain cut through his words, he saw vicious, gleeful, amber eyes, and a heavy paw swiped at him once more.

This time he spun aside, bringing his sword around.

The wolf snarled.

He stabbed again.

Smoke stung his eyes. He blinked and found darkness instead of fire. But he grasped the same hilt, the blade held the same weight.

The sound of the swords melded with each other: sharing a voice.

Claws.

No time to get it back. The claws raked across his shoulder in a bitter, tearing pain, breaking through the leather straps of his cuirass, drawing blood. And then a heavy blow across his face.

He fell.

Up. He had to get up. He was on his feet, shaking his head, trying to see through a black haze. He staggered through madness and confusion, fog and pain.

As if far away, he heard echoing words. "A sword age, an axe age. A wind age, a wolf age," and did not know who spoke them.

He tasted blood. Felt _Culumaica_ in his grip, and swung, dimly seeing the wolf's pouncing shape.

There was a short howl. Then the heavy weight of the brute on top of him, the foul breath, the snapping teeth.

The wolf was far older than him, he perceived, its great body made by fell sorceries and dwimmercraft, a demon corrupted into wolf-shape. He felt its dark mastery and wondered if once again, he would fall by the teeth of this dread-beast, as he had fallen by the fire of the _Valarauco_ many ages ago before Beleriand was lost to the sea.

It pushed its head from his grasp, and in mockery of a hound's affection it bent and nuzzled his cheek before baring its razor-teeth. He felt them scrape against his skin and heard it speak.

"Now, Laurëfindil, do you understand? Twice you have sought to slay an _Úmaia_ ². Twice now you will fail."

He threw his arms around the wolf's neck, crushing it to him. The paws of the beast scrabbled frantically against his armor as the grip tightened, tearing long, bloody gouges in his unarmored legs.

Bones groaned, and a sickening crack reechoed in the glade, as he broke the Wolfmaster's creation. The wolf hröa lay still on his chest.

Slaver and blood were in his eyes. Tears that he did not remember shedding burned his cheeks. Hands were rolling away from the great corpse, and the evening air was painfully sweet in his chest.

A high plaining cut through the twilit silence. The leaves quivered in the windless night, and Glorfindel stood up trembling, braced by Laineth's shoulder. Her eyes were scanning the forest, her body was a lean mass of corded muscle, ready to fight or flee. "What is that?"

"The fëa," he murmured. "It is calling to us. Do not listen."

They stayed still, statues wrought by long-forgotten craftsmen. The keening scream went on, high and steady, a long and primal noise, filled with rage.

Madness was nigh: when two notes began, splicing together an undulating cry. It was taking form and shape, a thread of words entered its pitch and then dominated them, swelling higher and higher, till they cowered under the knifing sound.

And then a hush fell on them. No echoes remained in their ears, it was gone away, forever. It was a heavy, solemn silence. Like lark-notes sinking from the sky, when a falcon's shadow falls upon them, their voices were hushed.

Glorfindel spat out blood onto the trampled moss, looking at the hröa. It was stiff and aberrant, a preternatural puppet whose strings was cut.

Vespertine birds began to sing, a hesitant murmur that steadily grew to a glad chorus. Elladan took his other arm, so he hung between Laineth and the Half-Elf like a trussed deer. Almost smiling at the ignominy in which he was placed, they went slowly along the path, Tawarian, and Avadion as the vanguard.

As they drew near the camp, they were challenged by a young Elf.

"Halt! Who goes there: friend or foe?"

"I do," said Elladan, without venturing another explanation. "Let us by."

"Lord Elladan?" came the inquiry.

"Aye." He pushed forward, leaving Tawarian to enlighten the guard and report to Helgon. He seemed ready to let Laineth take Glorfindel to the healer's tent when Glorfindel stopped him. "Take me to Elrohir."

The tent was lit as they approached. Elladan's pace quickened and flinging back the tent-flap, entering, heedless of his stumbling burden.

Her silver hair glinting in the lamplight, Celebrían knelt over Elrohir, bathing his forehead.

¹ _Úmaia_ -singular of _Úmaiar, demons._

² _Ñaurō-_ Quenya for werewolf. The Sindarin version is _gaurhoth._


	6. Chapter VI: Healing

Itarille absently plucked a note on her small lyre. It resounded in her still boudoir. Stillness was never something she was over fond of. It was too restricting. Once there, she did not like to break it, but still, she never liked it.

Calwen said silence often meant that danger was near, but for her, surrounded all her life by the protection of Imladris and its Lord, it only meant she was lonely.

The young moon was slowly fading, replaced by the light of blue Luinil. The note thrummed again in the hush, and then she laid the lyre on her bed and picked up her viol. The rehearsal had gone well, the song was nearly learned.

Lindir had not mentioned the doggerel, and she almost forgave him for reading it. She clenched her teeth together, flushing again at the mere recollection.

"It is nothing," she said firmly to herself. "Only nonsense."

Her eyes strayed to the window, and she wondered where Calwen was, and if she had reached Glorfindel's camp.

"Oromë, Lord of the Hunt, watch over my sister in your nightly rides," she pleaded softly, suddenly forgetting the happenings of that day, and only remembering her sister's plight. And then she remembered Elrohir was there as well, suffering the same peril as Calwen, and quickly added him to her pray. "And safeguard the Lord's son from harm as well," she said, and could see the bright grey eyes again, in the eyes of the stars.

~.~

Calwen sat down amongst the sprawling roots of the tree, staring into the gloom. The Elvish camp was wholly awake, and even from here on the outskirts, the far-reaching noise came to her ears.

What had happened two hours ago in the forest, she remembered vaguely, conscious only of a sense of dread, but it was blurred, and quickly fading from her mind.

The flap on the tent opened, and Arwen ducked out, her black hair falling around her face.

Calwen made a gesture to catch her eye, and Arwen seemed relieved to find a companion. She sat by Calwen, hugging her knees to her chest in silence. There were tear-stains on her cheeks.

"I don't know." she blurted out suddenly, startling Calwen. "I don't know if he will live, Cal. I do not know….." Her words were lost in sobs.

Calwen reached out and put a hand around her shoulder. "He is strong, Arwen. He is strong and surrounded by Healers. He has no choice but to live."

"He has a fever," whispered Arwen. "He is bathed in sweat."

"He is strong," repeated Calwen, but the words were hollow to her own ears. "He is very strong."

Arwen turned wild grey eyes on her. "Strength is not enough."

Calwen could think of nothing more to say. She rested her head against Arwen's black one and hoped that her silent friendship would be enough.

Slowly, her companion's breathing calmed, the hot tears ceased to fall. Not daring to move and disturb her rest, Calwen sat still, watching sunrise streak across the sky. The silver forest dawn came bright: clear and cold as the note of a hunting horn. Day-birds began to call, singing to greet the coming morn. A far away flock of finches warbled and squabbled interchangeably.

There was a flutter of wings, and a sparrow lighted on a branch within arm's reach. It was a cheerful, bright-eyed thing, with a friendly look. She was glad of the comfort, however small.

"Well met, little friend," she murmured, half to herself. "I would that you were able to speak, and could spare a word of comfort for those who need it."

The bird chittered at her. It spoke a lively, twittering tongue that made Calwen smile despite herself.

Arwen stirred, and murmured drowsily. "Who are you speaking too?"

"One of the bird-folk," answered Calwen, searching in the pack that lay nearby for some bread to crumble.

The sparrow tilted its head at her as she held out a handful of crumbs. It perched on her finger, but disappeared in a flutter of wings when Arwen bounded to her feet with a cry of dismay.

"How long have I been sleeping? Aì, it is dawn! Has he been defeated?"

Calwen regarded Arwen with unease. Her liege-lady and friend was stern as steel, brave of heart, but this misfortune had transformed her into a terrified child.

"I will go," she said. "Stay here."

Arwen's contorted face grew firm. "No, I will go." She hesitated. "But come with me, I pray." Her steps were timid and short at first, but grew in strength and length of stride. Like a swimmer who takes a plunge into icy water, she flung open the tent flap and entered, forcing her way through an unseen obstacle. Calwen followed.

The tent was dim and smelled of herbs and fever. The Lady Celebrían still knelt by her son, singing softly. The words were calm and soothing.

She approached closer to the wounded. She was not well acquainted with Elrohir, but she remembered him as strong, quick to smile, with a glint that could be either anger or mirth in his grey eyes. Now his face was waxen as a corpse, and damp with fever's sweat.

He tossed in the throes of some evil dream, but gradually Celebrían's song calmed him, and he lay still, his face almost peaceful.

Celebrían looked up then. "Sit by him, Arwen," she said. "I must go and fetch Amdirion. Bathe his forehead in this herb-water."

She left.

Arwen dipped the cloth in the bowl and wrung it out before spreading it across Elrohir's forehead.

Calwen crouched near her. "How is he faring?"

Arwen's smile was uneven, her lips trembled as she spoke. "He is better, Cal. The night has mended him."

If that is so, thought Calwen, as she watched him groan, I do not wish to imagine him before dawn.

~.~

Hûenon rose stiffly from his master's side, stretching at the promise of dawn. The night had been cool, though there was no frost.

His fringed tail waved as he nuzzled Elladan's arm.

Elladan made no sign. The hound whined and pushed his muzzle against him with more force, but there was no response.

At last, with a heavy sigh, he lay down again.

His ears pricked as he heard the far-away crunch of bracken, a rabbit hopping through the underbrush. The forest was heavy with the scent of dew, but there was the warm smell of the rabbit and the whir of grouse wings.

Beside him, Elladan sat in a far-away world, the time when all had gone amiss.

It was a reckless venture, he had known so from the beginning. But trolls were dull-witted, and he thought he could catch them at the time just before the dawn, and drive them away from their caves.

It was not the trolls, it was the _gaurhoth_ ¹ that had wounded so many of his comrades-in-arms.

Both were defeated, and yet that would not save his brother. Elrohir was dying, and he could not check that, nor do anything.

The bond they shared let him feel his brother's soul, wandering in some lonely, dark land, closer and closer to where the river of death ran slow and strong.

He would have wept if tears would have come, but instead, they burned his heart like a poison.

His eyes staring far away into the surrounding trees, it took him many minutes to see the figure that thwarted his vision.

Celebrían looked down at him, her face very pale, her eyes very bright. "Hail, Elladan."

"Naneth."

"Come with me and see your brother," she said.

"I cannot," he replied, meeting her eyes.

"And tell me, why can you not?" Her voice had a steely ring, tempered only slightly with sorrow. He knew she was angered with him, but would say nothing until an opportune time arose.

Elladan paused, hoping she would accept silence, but his mother's eyes were probing and sharp-seeing. "We quarreled."

Celebrían's skewed smile was the unlawful child of a smile and a frown. As he stood up, his leather boots creaking, she put an arm around his shoulder and leaned her head against his. "Of course you did, my son. But why can you not?"

His mother's arm was warm and firm, he derived a great measure of comfort from her embrace, and it seemed to thaw a cold somewhere inside, enough so that the tears stung his eyes.

"I can."

"Aye, so you can," she said, stepping forward with her arm still around him.

When he entered the tent, Arwen flew to her feet and embraced him tightly, although she did not utter a word.

Elladan returned the gesture, but his eyes were fastened on the prone body of his brother. Arwen, sensing this, stepped back. "He is mending," she said softly. "Did you find Amdirion, Naneth?"

Celebrían shook her head. "No. I found a finer healer."

"Elladan?" Arwen's brows drew together into a frown. She looked at her brother. "But, he is not a healer…"

For an answer, Celebrían took Elladan's arm and drew him down by the pallet. "Talk to him, _ion nîn_. His soul searches for the bond."

Elladan seated himself awkwardly, and took Elrohir's hand in his own, feeling the clammy, damp skin. For a moment, he sat silent, as if searching for something to say, and then began talking, his voice a low, constant murmur, like the hum of a bee as he recounted tales of their childhood mischief, stories of their training, pranks they had played, defeats and victories. He dwelt most often on their successes, whether it was the Enemy or the unfortunate one who had fallen victim to their frolics.

It was high-noon when he finished. Elrohir had lain still for the past two hours. The fever seemed to be passing.

Elladan stood stiffly and ducked out the tent and into the bright sun. Hûenon, who had stayed faithfully by the tent, pricked up his ears and followed him. A small company of Elves from Laineth's cadre had just returned to the camp, he watched as the leader reported to Laineth. Once they had finished, she made an unhurried walk to where Helnor was speaking with Glorfindel.

Elladan's gaze went up, he saw Tawarian in the slim top-boughs of an aspen. She was shading her eyes, leaning far out. Then, like a leaf, she nimbly flitted through the branches and saluted him when her feet touched the ground.

"Did you see aught?"

"There was a flock of grouse," she informed him. "I shall go out, if Captain Laineth wills it, and fetch us some for supper."

Elladan smiled at her, caressing Hûenon's ears. "I have a taste for grouse: Hûenon does as well. He is a fine bird dog. We shall go with you and earn our food."

She looked perplexed. "My Lord, I mean no affront, but your brother is wounded. Do you wish to leave his side?"

"I have done what I can. His life remains in the hands of the Válar, and I can do no more. Advise me, Tawarian. Do I remain useless by his bedside as he seeks to bind body and soul, or do I go hunting so that these grouse may provide a nourishing broth for him?"

"I hope they are plump. Scrawny birds make a broth I would not feed to a dog. I mean no affront to Hûenon, either." she added as an afterthought.

They met at the outskirts of the camp, both armed with bows. Hûenon frolicked around them as an eager pup.

"Are you ready?" Elladan asked.

Tawarian only laughed. "This is not a very perilous expedition, my lord, unless grouse are much more fearsome than I believed."

He could not resist the smile that threatened him. "No, I was not concerned about the grouse. Come then, let us go."

It was drawing close to evening when the two returned, bearing a brace of grouse each.

"These grouse were truly perilous." Tawarian teased. Elladan's title had departed in the space of a short afternoon spent together.

"Most dangerous." he agreed. "When-" His voice was wrestled into silence. Arwen came running towards them.

"Is all well?"

"Yes! Yes!" she cried, beside herself with relief and joy. "Yes, he is awake. Come, hurry, let us pluck these, for he will be hungry."

Elladan sat down there, and taking a fat grouse in his hand, began to strip the wing-feathers away in quick, hurried strokes. Calwen joined them: they each took a bird and made short work of them.

A fire was already lit. Three of the birds were spitted along with a hare and a brace of pheasants, other hunting parties had gathered, the last grouse was relinquished to a cook to be made into broth.

When Elladan carried the wooden bowl into the tent, he saw Elrohir open his eyes and smile weakly. "Good evening, brother,"

~.~

¹ _Gaurhoth_ is Sindarin for werewolf.


	7. Chapter VII: Two Sides of the Coin

Waking was a far-away dream, sitting an impossibility. He could not walk. He could not run. So he flew. _I_ _am a starling_ , he thought. _High above the world._

"Little starling?" He heard his mother's voice, choked and sad.

 _It's raining in the sky_ , he answered in his mind, feeling wetness fall on his cheeks. _The sky is grey. The clouds are wet and heavy._

Rain danced on a fountain, slow and steady, slivers of silver. But the rain was gentle and the air warm.

Unchained from the bonds of earth, he was free.

Rain danced on a fountain. Ripples spread out from the basin, in never-ending circles. By the pedestal of the fountain, thickets of flowers grew, and raindrops splashed into the chalices of roses. He swooped so low his wings clipped them.

Their hidden thorns reached out and pulled him down. Briars wrapped around him. Their spines tore through his feathers.

He was bound to the earth again, staring up through the thicket. Rain trickled into his eyes. The sky was crying with him.

He had lost his wings.

A rose-stalk bent down under the weight of the rain, emptying its cup of tears onto his face. From the vermillion depths of the velvet-soft flower, he saw two brilliant green gems. He reached up his hand to find a comfort, feeling the silky strands of amber petals under his fingers.

Suddenly the rose was gone, and he was alone in the sky, a great, grey expanse, so lonely and cold.

Below him, birch trees danced, strange contorted shapes. Pink blossoms and blighted branches whispered below him as he soared.

The silver sheen of his wings reflected the sun, like a polished steel shield. They were burning. He could smell smoke.

He landed hard. His Fingers splayed out, clutching the branches of a mallorn sapling. The golden leaves whispered and rustled. He opened his mouth to cry for pain, but the voice that came was sweet, brave and courageous. The voice of unfathomable love like any mother.

"Celebrían."

"They call me, Elrohir." he said to the tree.

"I will call you starling."

Then seasons passed through the tree. It grew and blossomed. But in the high summer of its life, a blight came and withered the leaves and golden flowers. Sap turned bitter. Fires licked at the branches, straining higher and higher, and the bark turned black and withered to ash.

Embers landed on his skin and he burned. The fire turned to him now.

As the flames burned his cloak, they whirled and spun and twisted into wings.

He soared heavens made white with the fire of his wings. It was searing heat, it blistered in his blood.

Fire licked at his wings, but they did not char. Instead, they shone with a snowy radiance, pushing him up, up towards a maelstrom of brilliance. Up...and he was pulled into it. Skeins of light swirled round and round. He was beaten by the wind, tossed to and fro.

Then it dropped him. Wingless, screaming, he plummeted to the waiting earth below.

And he woke up.

There was darkness in the tent, but he smelled horses and heard their stampings, and the low hum of voices.

His arm felt like lead, but he moved it slowly to his stomach, where he vaguely remembered a wound. A wound. It was as meaningful as a yesterday song. His mind was blurred, dull: all his wits dimmed and distorted.

Finally, he decided to sit. It was such a simple act he was certain he could achieve it, but he could hardly lift his head. A lurch of pain and disbelief pulsed through him. He was weaker than a newborn babe.

He considered crying out, then, for he could hear the soft Sindarin and knew he was among friends, but he only achieved a hoarse croak.

Nonetheless, the tent flap opened. He saw his mother. She looked at him in silence, and then dropped to her knees and kissed his forehead. "Welcome back, Elrohir."

"Where did I go?" he rasped.

"Lie back," she whispered, smoothing hair from his face. "You took a journey to the Halls of the Dead, my starling, and I was afraid you would enter very soon."

The thought jolted him, and a sour taste was in his mouth. "Death?"

"Yes," Celebrían answered. "Yes, you were very near to it."

He pushed the thought from him, closing his eyes as if by doing so he could banish the fear. "Elladan?"

"He is here. Or was, a half hour ago. He and Tawarian went grouse-hunting."

"Birds." He paused, letting his mind work. It seemed wrapped in a fog of pain and confusion, it moved so slowly. "So all is well? After the trolls…..I remember thinking it seemed too easy, with the sun. There was more than them."

"There was. But it is gone." She held the dinted edge of a bowl to his lips. "Drink."

He did so eagerly. The water was cool and unbelievably refreshing. His voice sounded more like his own when he spoke next. "Thank you. What of Arwen? Did she come with you?"

Celebrían laughed. "Of course she did. Do you want to see her?"

"I would rather rest," he mumbled. "Would you send Elladan to me…when he comes back? I need to talk to him."

She arched a dark eyebrow. "I never planned on doing otherwise. Go to sleep, starling."

The words ringing in his ears, Elrohir closed his eyes and disappeared on the wings of a dark and dreamless sleep.

When he next woke, it was to the sound of the tent flap rustling. He opened his eyes and saw Elladan.

"Good evening, brother."

Any enmity fled like ghosts at dawn. Elladan sat down beside him. "Well, Master Sluggard, I hope you had a fine time lying abed," he said, but his voice was husky with unshed tears.

Elrohir tried to wave his arm, but the exertion proved too much. "I did indeed. Did you fetch me any supper?"

"A bowl of grouse broth will be coming shortly. Tawarian shot this one though, not I."

"Of course. Her arrow go through the eye. Yours have an unfortunate tendency to spoil the bird and go through the body."

Elladan tried to laugh manfully, but the laughter changed to tears, and he buried his head in his hands. "I am so sorry, 'Ro. I am so sorry."

Elrohir knew dimly that he was not speaking of grouse, but his memories were hazy. "Why are you sorry?" he inquired. "Because you are a poor marksman?"

His brother choked. Elrohir reached out his hand with painful slowness and gripped his brother's shoulder. His fingers were so weak, they slid over the leather cuirass. "Elladan," he said quietly. "I don't remember your offense…..not really. I remember that something occurred between us, but it doesn't matter. I don't remember it, I don't want to remember it and I will not. It's gone. Gone forever. Ashes on the wind. And I'll forgive you if you forgive me."

"I will."

Elrohir smiled. "Well then, where's the broth?"

And they both knew they were forgiven.

~.~

"All hail the Lord Elrond!" The murmurs ran through the camp like fire through wood. Celebrían, catching wind of them, bolted from the campfire, leaving her meal behind.

Elrond, accompanied by a guard and a young Elf-woman Celebrían recognized as Helnor's new wed wife, slowed his horse from a gallop to a canter.

In another moment, she found herself tight in his embrace. "Elrohir?"

"He is awake, and eating as of now," she murmured into his chest, the breath nearly crushed from her lungs.

He seemed to realize this and took a step back, flushing a little in the firelight. She winked at him and took his hand. "Come with me."

The tents that housed the wounded was pitched somewhat apart from the others, to afford them peace and privacy. Glorfindel and Amdirion were standing by one of these. "He has lasted past the dawn," said Glorfindel hopefully.

"Yes, he has." Amdirion pushed back hair from his weary face. "But she has not. Mandos took her from us an hour ago."

Glorfindel's eyes widened. "She is….gone?" he whispered in a choked voice. "But she was improving. I saw it."

"It was the last gasp before the plunge, Captain. I was with as she passed. The Laiquendi will bury her tonight, according to their traditions."

Glorfindel bowed his head in grief. "We are blessed," he said at last, "that no more were taken from us."

"We are."

Although the pair had made no noise as they approached, Glorfindel's head snapped up with a warrior instinct honed to uncanniness. "Greetings, Lord Elrond."

"Captain Glorfindel. I came to see my son."

A smile lifted the sadness on Glorfindel's face. "I am glad to say he is doing well. Elladan is with him now."

As he passed, Elrond asked, "What was the name of the _Laiquendë_ warrior?"

Amdirion supplied him with it. "Dimethor."

"We will be at the funeral," answered Celebrían quietly.

Death dimmed the crimson sunset, and cast long shadows. The Laiquendi of Imladris were tightly-knit, distrustful of others not their race, for the sins of the Ñoldor had not been forgotten or mitigated by years. Although they lived under the rule of the Peredhel, who bore Noldo blood, they forgave him when he reckoned his lineage to Thingol Greycloak instead of Finwë _Ñoldóran_. Still, they kept themselves segregated and kept their rites their own. Elrond had spoken earlier to Avadion, and the Green-Elf chief had replied courteously that they valued Elrond 's consideration and that all would be allowed to show their respect, only the Laiquendi would participate in the burial rites.

The Laiquendi warriors were gathered around the open grave. As the mother of Dimethor was not present, the nearest of kin would hold the tree, and if there were none, the chieftain of the tribe would. Dimethor's kin was not present, and so Avadion held in his hands a small sapling, soil still clinging to its roots. All other warriors held flowers in their hands, not plucked, but instead carefully uprooted.

A grave had already been dug. Now, two bearers came forward, lifted the body from the bier of branches, and reverently laid her in the grave, and then melded into _Laiquendi_ crowd as soon as they had done so.

The _Laiquendi_ refused to use metal in their rites: their weapons were laid aside, and each, in turn, knelt by the grave and took handfuls of the loose earth to cover the body, murmuring soft farewells. When the grave was filled, at last, Avadion stepped forward, and a great shout of mourning was raised.

He spoke then. "My brothers, my sisters, we fight and we die, that is our lot in life. But there is no grief in that! Brave and strong, we slay the foe, and no better end we can know! Dimethor was brave, and her spirit will find a housing among the War-Halls of Màkar and Meàssë, where they fight through the day and feast through the night."

He knelt, and planted the sapling, mounding the earth about it. When at last it stood upright, the Green Elves began to sing. They filed past the grave as they did, each kneeling and replanting their flower. It was the tradition of the Wood-Elves to cover the resting places of the ones they lost to battle with flowers that would bloom again, to honor the everlasting beauty of the spirits of their departed, but with their fragile blossoms show the frailty of flesh.

When the last _Laiquendë_ had planted his blossom, they stepped away, and Dimethor's grave was a blaze of gold and scarlet flowers amidst green turves.

Drums beat in the night, a wild rhythm that thudded in the marrow. Dances began, madly whirling circles that interlocked around the grave. Songs were struck up. These were no solemn dirges for the fallen, but a strong clear shout that celebrated life, a victory cry.

In honor of Dimethor's death as a fighter, warrior dances began. Their weapons were picked up again. Knives and torches were juggled to and fro, dances enacted battles that raged frighteningly close to real.

Wild, primal, fearsome, the rites of the Forest-Children were hard for Glorfindel, raised among the _Caliquendi_ to fathom. But his blood pulsed strong and sure in answer to the soaring warrior song, and he lost himself to the eldritch sound of the flute, the ancient words that were rich and deep. The drums pulsed a rhythm too fast for pain or doubt. It was a beat of triumph.

He wondered at their acceptance of death. Their mourning was short, they dwelt on joy instead of sorrow. But, he realized, death was more of a reality in their life then in his. Since the Cuiviénen, they dwelt on the cusp of danger, despising walls and magic girdles. The Hand of Mandos was among them so frequently that if they observed long mourning periods, they would be locked in a neverending chain of grief. Instead, they chose to find joy and hope in the darkest of times, and rebuild their hearts.

More dangerous and less wise, perhaps, but not in all things. Although the _Caliquendi_ might boast of light and understanding, the rough-spun, practical wisdom of the _Moriquendi_ was needful in this time.

Glorfindel knew that the dance would continue through the night, and he watched the stars shining on the melee, and wondered if they would rather be enmeshed in this primal dance than in all the solemn lamentations of the Ñoldor.

The drums becoming fainter and fainter as he studied the constellations.

There was _Menelmacar_ , the Swordsman in the Sky, and _Remmirath_ , the starry net Varda wove to catch the light of Ilúvatar that fell from her hands. _Soronúmë_ , the constellation she traced in the sky with the dews of Telperion.

Blazing brightly, was a lone star: _Alcarinquë_ , the Glorious.

But the constellation he loved most was _Wilwarin_. Long ago, in the enchanted twilight, he and his mother had sat near the Two Trees. One gleamed with silver, for each of its many blooms gave forth a light only dimly remembered in that of the moon. The other held clusters of flowers overflowing with warmth and light greater than that of fire. Dew fell as rain from their branches, as she told him the story of the Butterfly.

It ran thus. Once, long ago, before the Elves awoke at the _Cuiviénen_ , there was a butterfly. She was a creature of surpassing beauty, with jeweled wings that were blue as a summer sky. Her task was appointed by Yavanna, that she would flutter from flower to flower. Inside their chalice of petals, a soft yellow powder was guarded. The butterfly would take only a little, and give it to the next flower, so they might multiply. The flowers gave her sweet nectar in gratitude.

At night, the butterfly slept on the shoulder of Yavanna. Her gilded wings glittered in the starlight so that those who saw her from far away thought she was a brooch that Aulë had gifted his bride with.

But at last, the butterfly felt weary and wished to sleep for a long time. Then Yavanna grew saddened over her butterfly and determined to make a request to _Tintallë_ , the Star-Kindler. Carrying the softly slumbering butterfly in her hands, she journeyed to _Ilmarin_. There Varda, who knew the butterfly, grew sad as well. Then she gently clasped her fingers over Yavanna's hands, and together they began to sing.

Yavanna sang her autumn song of sweet rest and sleep.

Varda sang her song of lifting up stars to the sky.

And then, the butterfly drifted from their hands, high up among the starry hosts, and Varda placed her in great honor among the heavens.

When the Elves awoke, it is said that Yavanna commanded their eyes to go first to her butterfly, which they called _Wilwarin_ when they discovered speech. They saw her, and a love of things that grow and live was born in their hearts.

And there she sleeps, until Arda is reborn. Then, she will wake, and fly down from the sky. She will sip the nectar of the Two Trees, and be Yavanna's constant companion.

That is how _Wilwarin_ came to be.

"Oh, Válar!" He heard Arwen's exclamation above the drums. Her grey eyes were wide with amazement. "Oh, Válar."

Glorfindel followed her gaze. He knew that when visits were made to King Thranduil's halls, Arwen was held spellbound by the deep-forest dances. She was like that now, one hand tugging on her black hair as her eyes breathlessly followed the near-impossible feats of the Laiquendi.

He smiled at how her exclamation mirrored Elrohir's. They were alike in many ways and easily impressed by things they considered beautiful.

The moon westered. Newborn dawn appeared with hands of flowers, and the dances ceased. Mist in the morning, the Laiquendi disappeared, flitting away in silence.

The spell was broken. Celebrían and Elrond were not to be seen. Glorfindel frowned, looking around Arwen. Elrohir was asleep, leaning against his brother's shoulder. His wound had overcome him even in the face of the dancing drums.

A fog was rising off the dales, the early morning air was cool and damp. Glorfindel stood up from the fern-cloaked log that had served as a seat, and stood up, determining to search for his liege Lord and Lady.

¹ In Ñoldor tradition (ie. Fingolfin) cairns were raised over the dead, but I felt Silvan and Sindar tradition would be more related to nature, although their ideas of an afterlife are similar to those of the Vikings.


	8. Chapter VIII: Anxiety

Chapter VIII: Anxiety

The sky promised rain. Already a few drops, a vanguard of the spring storm, splashed down among the leaves.

The camp had melted away like snow under this light shower that was pattering in the trees. Only patient packhorses and a lonely grave betrayed that this was once a bivouac. The ashes from fires were buried beneath moss, as were the bones of the pheasants and grouse.

The legion that had set out from the Valley, increased now by six and lessened by one, left the Trollshaws by evening. It had rained throughout the day, a dreary, intermittent sprinkling, and the sky only cleared when the sun, which had been unseen all day, set behind the hills.

Elrohir rode in the small wain the healers had brought, Elladan beside him on his filly. Elrohir had sat at the beginning of the journey but now lay back, eyes closed in pained fatigue.

Arwen, on the right of Glorfindel as they rode in the van, leaned over and nudged him playfully. "Why so grim, Captain?"

Glorfindel did not return her arch look. "I must tell Dimethor's family she fell. I have had to do so often, but it has not become any easier."

"I hope it never will," answered Arwen, her eyebrows knit together in a saddened gaze. "That would mean you would be calloused to death. Pain here"-she laid a hand over her heart-"Means you are still as you were created: feeling."

"Yes," said Glorfindel. "But there are times I wish I was heartless."

Her eyes searched his. "Gondolin?" she whispered.

"Gondolin." he agreed. "And all I lost there."

Arwen edged Mithdal nearer to Rochael. "You never speak of it. I was always afraid to broach the matter, because it was so near to your heart, but-"

"You may ask. But I will not tell you, not here, not now."

Arwen frowned. She was not used to being denied her way, but her nature allowed her to take it well. "Will you?"

He nodded. "I will."

"Arwen! Look ahead!" Calwen's voice broke into their conversation. "The Bruinen!"

Arwen laughed. "Race you!" She spurred Mithdal forward, towards the Loudwater foamed in its stony bed.

Urged only a little by Calwen, Belan galloped after the blue roan but although the stallion had a longer stride, Mithdal was indeed a horse that could not be bought for love or money, and she leaped into the river, her rider bent low over her neck, while the others followed at a staider pace, more for the sake of Elrohir and Cúldir than of dignity.

Elrohir had woken when he heard Arwen's exclamation, blinking like an owl woken at noon. "Imladris? Ah, the Bruinen," he muttered, trying to get a grasp of his surroundings.

"Yes, the Bruinen," Celebrían called back. "Be still, we are nearly there."

"Her concept of near and mine differ greatly," said Elrohir to his brother in a low voice, running a hand through the strands of hair that had fallen from his braid. "It will be midnight by the time we reach Imladris."

Elladan grinned, more out of relief than humor, thought Glorfindel, and Celebrían too allowed a smile to curve her lips, though she usually ignored her sons' raillery, and Glorfindel felt it was for the same reason.

They reached Imladris three hours before midnight, a detail Celebrían took great delight in reminding Elrohir of.

By then, Elrohir was too exhausted to respond to his mother. He lay on the wain, his face pale and wan in the lantern light. Elladan dismounted the filly and held out his arms. "I will help get you down."

"No. I'm well." His speech was slurred together.

"Prove it." Elladan challenged, climbing into the wagon. He picked up Elrohir as if he was a babe and climbed out.

"Válar-forsaken stomach wounds." Glorfindel heard him mutter as Elladan carried him to the infirmary. He took Elladan's filly and Rochael to the stables, and spent a while there, currying his old friend. "This is the last journey, I promise," he said, putting the comb away. "You will have a well-deserved rest."

His breath caught in his throat as he realized what that meant. Death had seemed so far away. Elven horses lived a century or more, but Rochael was beyond that age. He blinked away tears. It seemed he would never realize how much things meant to him before they were beyond his grasp forever.

Leaving Rochael with a farewell caress, he walked to the House. As was the custom, the first full day after the return would be in mourning, for those fallen and wounded, or the lands ravaged. Then the festivities would commence.

Already, he saw that the lamps were dimmed and black silks covered the windows. It seemed gloomy: he did not wish to enter, so he turned aside into the gardens.

His mind was running, running away from death, from telling the tidings to Dimethor's family, from Rochael's approaching demise, from Gondolin, from Valossë.

It had been so many Ages ago. Gondolin was gone, Beleriand was gone, even she was gone. But he had not forgotten, could not forget, even though he knew she waited for him on the far shores.

Her death…he had wanted to protect her. She was not a warrior. And only fighters survived the Rape of Gondolin. Hers had been one in thousands. But it had meant more to him than all the others.

Her death was simple. She did not fall slaying some fearsome creature. They had been running, away from the Great Market, towards Idril's Way. An Orc javelin had run her through, before he had cleaved its head from its neck, and knew that he had slain one more of his kin, and lost one more that he loved. The thrust had not killed her instantly, it had pierced her stomach, and she lay curled around it, eyes wide, skewered like a roasting bird.

' _Valossë!'_ he screamed, before Tùor was upon him, a giant of strength. Even burdened with Ecthelion, he had forced Glorfindel away, for a fire-drake was coming.

Glorfindel had never been sure if he had ever forgiven Tùor. The man had found his wife and son. He had lost it all. He thought that maybe he might have saved her, although he knew that the trek to Sirion Idril had told him of killed off the weak and wounded, one by one.

White flowers were blossoming like small moons, a capricious evening breeze danced with them, through their twisting vines and large leaves that sheltered the pale blossoms.

"Glorfindel? Glorfindel, are you there?" He heard a soft, cautious step on the path, and Arwen came around the corner, shame-faced and guilty. "Glorfindel, I saw you at the stables, and how sad you looked. Was it because I spoke of Gondolin?"

"A little, yes," he said. "I was thinking of Rochael. He is old, and will soon die. And then, I remembered _it_."

"It? But Gondolin was not only an object to you, was it?" asked Arwen. "It was something….alive." she finished in a murmur.

"Yes. It was a song, _èl_ nìn, and we felt it-her song, every day. It was a hum in our bones when we knew we were at one with the stone and the water. The song was peace, and safety, and joy. And she became our mother and our guardian. She sheltered and nourished body and spirit with her fountains and gardens, with her walls and watchtowers. She was more than a memory of Tìrion, she was life to us. We built her with our tears, and our songs, our blood. Tears and blood, Arwen, tears, and blood were the mortar that held her marble together, and we gave them willingly. And in the end, they became a song, and she became alive."

Arwen's little hand found his in the silence that hung between them. "I am sorry that you lost that, Glorfindel."

"I lost more than the City," he said.

She answered, "I know." Her voice faltered as she reached into her girdle and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "I found these in the library, and….I read them. That is, I read the first one…..the letter."

Glorfindel took them from her, holding them up to the moonlight. They were yellowed and cracked with age, but he recognized the vining flower border he had drawn so carefully around the words, in ink that had been so black it was almost blue, but was now nearly grey.

"Valossë," said Arwen very softly. "That was her name." She looked at him as if she expected him to weep or lash out in fury, but in truth, he had forgotten how beautiful her name sounded.

Oh, he had whispered her name to the silence, over and over, a chanting liturgy of pain, but when it came from other lips than his, the soft liquid of the Sindarin accent smoothing over the lofty Quenya syllables, it meant she was not forgotten, that she still lived in other minds than his.

"Yes," he replied. "That was her name. She was one of the Fair-Elves, a Vanya. She had eyes that were strange among us: the hue of our earth and her hair was pale gold. I have never seen eyes like hers among our folk, though they are common with men. She was not a warrior, she was too gentle, too fragile. I do not know how she survived the crossing of the Grinding Ice when our hardiest did not. But sometimes there is a steel we wot not of in the flower. She was a fine climber too, we used to scale the Echoriath together. Otherwise, she preferred the arts, poetry, music, and dance. She taught me how to write poetry, but I was never an apt pupil." His words came out of him like a tumbling torrent, incoherent but desperate to be heard and understood.

Arwen looked at him. In the light of the amber lantern that hung from a birch branch, he saw her face was guilty as if she had pried into secrets and hurt him. She handed him the sheaf, but he pushed them gently away. "Keep them. They do more good to you than they do to me."

She stood up, swallowed, and then said. "If you would accept it, Glorfindel, I think you would never want to part with them."

"Why is that?"

"Because-because they mean so much to you, but you cannot accept what lies in the past. I-" She stopped, tears glinting in her eyes. "I cannot say any more. You think me hardhearted because I never knew what you suffered. And you are right! I only have one request to make: find the answer."

Her words were enigmatic: her eyes wide and forthright. She seemed so young and yet so old: at once a child and a woman. He had treated her like a girl, a daughter, she was showing him that in wisdom, there were times when she was older than he.

"The answer to what?"

"To your ghosts," she said very quietly and left.

Rows of poplar trees rustled. And the night looked at him with the clear and sad eyes of the stars, and he thought in the moonlight he could see the ghosts that haunted him. He saw Duilin burn, he saw Elenwë freeze. He saw that Turgon's love could save neither the wife that died beneath the ice or the city that withered beneath the flame and that his own love could not save Valossë.

His feet had walked the road he had to take, the road he was always going to take. Their paths were laid out before them, woven in the threads of Vairë's tapestry, and the only thing they could choose was how they would walk the path: a thief in the night or a bringer of the light.

They haunted him: these ghosts of a twilit life, in his presence to inveigle him to a mad agony of guilt. But they were shadows, cast by the light of the lives he had lost. He looked at them, looked at them as they danced at the corners of his vision, and knew that as a candle casts shadow, these were only a poor mockery, and he could shrug them away.

But not yet. They had been with him for so long, long, lonely years troubling him by day as evil dreams plagued him by night. They had become familiar, almost acquaintances that he was loath to part with, lest something even eviler take their place.

~.~

Nestànu was sitting beside Elrohir, experienced eyes running over his stomach wound. "Yarrow powder. That was wise of someone," she remarked. "I did not credit Amdirion with that much sense."

"I believe that you are jealous because Master Amdirion was able to join in the excitement and you were left behind," Elrohir answered, his eyelids drooping in spite of his struggles. A small ride in the bed of wagon should not have sapped his strength like this.

Nestànu looked at him wryly. "Perhaps that is so."

"I think it is," answered Elrohir, a feeling of security augmenting the desire to sleep, as Nestànu's strong wrists and tender hands took charge.

"I will have you know, young Lord, that I hold no grudge against Amdirion. Truth be told, I enjoy his company, but at times, he lacks practicality."

Elrohir mumbled, "So why he is the healer only second to you?"

"Because he is capable, kind, and clever." countered Nestànu.

"I do not understand you. At first, you were disparaging him, now you are defending him."

"Not at all. The only tendency I begrudge is his aptitude to tend the ones in the most pain first, not the ones who need the care the quickest. I thought he might have ministered to Cùldir, who only suffered a broken arm, instead of you, and yarrow powder does little to halt a taint, though it might prevent it. Troll weapons are as filthy as their wielders." she ended in disgust.

Elrohir felt his sense of perception slipping away. Nestànu's face seemed far away, Gwindel's voice a hundred miles from him. The black cloak of sleep was wrapping around him, soft and warm, a drowsy illimitable darkness.

"At last." he heard Nestànu say impatiently. "Are you prepared, Gwindel?"

~.~

"Itarille?"

"Válar!" she exclaimed, spinning on her heel. "Are you back so soon?"

Calwen entered the room. "It looks that way."

Itarille pulled her sister into a tight embrace. "It is good to see you again-" She stopped abruptly. "W-were any wounded?" she asked.

Calwen nodded. "Yes. A _Laiquendë_ died, and Cùldir broke his arm."

"Otherwise?" Itarille pressed with unwonted interest.

Calwen's brows knit suspiciously, and she answered slowly. "Lord Elrohir suffered a stomach wound, and there was-"

Itarille interrupted her again, voice taut as her own violin strings. "Lord Elrohir?"

"Yes…"

Her face showed fear. "I must see him!" she cried, starting towards the door. Calwen stopped her and forced her back towards the bed. "No, you cannot. He is Nestànu's hands now: the healers wanted quiet as they work. They-"

Itarille's hands were clenching and unclenching "What happened?"

"In the name of Manwë, will you cease your interrupting!" cried Calwen. "Sit down on the bed, and I will tell you all. But if I hear another word, you can learn what you wish from someone other than me."

Like a well-trained hound, Itarille dropped on the bed, her green eyes lifted beseechingly to Calwen.

"When the company laid a trap for the Trolls, they had scattered caltrops to keep them from breaking through the ranks. A troll threw one at Elrohir, and buried it in his stomach. His life hung on a slim thread for a night, but he rallied and came back this morning in a wagon. I appreciate your evident concern for me," she added tartly.

Itarille stood up, weak with relief. "Calwen, do not be offended! It's only….it's only.." She fumbled for words. "That you are clearly not wounded, and-"

"Lord Elrohir is undeniably the most handsome among those injured," said Calwen slyly. Her eyebrows were arched and the corner of her mouth down, trying not to smile.

Itarille flushed, and then drew the shreds of her dignity about her like a mantle. "He is a….a…never mind."

"I will do so." smiled Calwen, drawing her sister down on the bed. "Do not act like a ruffled hen. I found you this," she said, searching about in the pouch that hung from her belt, and produced a stone with a teasing smile. "Jasper. It brings out your eyes."

~.~

There was a timid knock on the door. Gwindel, drying her hands on her apron, hurried to open it, for Elrohir's family would be concerned over the state of the youngest son.

To her surprise, she found a small Elf-maid, fine-boned, with thick golden hair hanging over her shoulders.

"May I assist you?" she offered courteously. She remembered her, it was the minstrel. Yes, Itarille.

"I-I was wondering if I might see Lord Elrohir," answered Itarille, speaking rapidly. The shadows that the flickering lamps cast at midnight could not hide her blushes.

Gwindel arched an eyebrow. "I am afraid that he is asleep: he should be left to himself."

Itarille raised a hand to her mouth and then dropped it again. "Oh. Oh, I see. How is he faring? He is not in danger, is he?"

"No, the worst is past." She leaned against the doorway, hoping she would leave soon. The day had been long and hard, and she wished to find her bed.

"That is good to know," answered Itarille and flitted back down the hallway like a moth in her grey wrapper.

Gwindel rolled her eyes heavenwards and closed the door.

The next knock came little over an hour later, this time brisk and firm. It was Lady Arwen and Lord Elladan inquiring about their brother this time. She repeated the answer she had given the minstrel, and when they had gone, sank wearily back in her chair, hoping Nestànu would be finished setting Cùldir's arm very soon.

She recognized the shy rap on the door as soon as it came: but, bound with the constrictions of courtesy, she opened it and civilly repeated her answer for the third time.

Itarille's face was wan. "May I see him tomorrow?"

"That hinges on his condition tomorrow. Besides, he will not wake until the afternoon."

"Why?"

"Milk of poppy is a strong soporific," answered Gwindel briskly. "I will inform you as soon as he wakes. Is that satisfactory?"

"Yes, very." murmured Itarille bewilderedly. She tried to infuse more confidence into her voice but failed. "Yes, please do so."

"Have a fair night," muttered Gwindel to her retreating back and closed the door.

~.~

"For the Válar's sake, Gwindel said she would tell you!" exclaimed Calwen. "You will wear the rug away without pacing, sit down."

Itarille stopped under the pretense of examining a flute. "I am only restless, Cal, nothing more."

Calwen snapped impatiently, "Then practice your archery!"

Itarille shook her head. She could not leave. What if Gwindel came to tell her and she was gone? Why, oh why was it not raining? Then she would some justification for remaining in her boudoir. "I will, in an hour or so. But not now."

"Why not?"

"I have to practice!" exclaimed Itarille in desperation, and sat down resolutely before her harp.

Calwen cast her a queer, sidelong glance. "I will leave you to do so. Have a good morning."

"Likewise."

When her sister was gone, Itarille sat staring at the harp, twisting her hands together in a childish gesture of anxiety.

Finally, she could bear it no longer and knocked at the familiar door once more. It was wrenched open by Gwindel. "Come in," she said tartly. "But only for a moment."

Itarille dashed eagerly past her and knelt by the bed. Elrohir was sitting up, his face pale, all the paler because of the dark hair that tangled around it.

He flushed when she saw in this unlordly position, and she blushed in answer, looking down at the floor.

"Another visitor?" he inquired curiously. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Itarille? Have you come to give me my just comeuppance for ruining your harp?"

"It is not broken. I was able to fix it the following morning."

"I am glad to hear that."

She dared to raise her eyes and saw a gentle smile on his lips. "I only wanted to see if you were well, and thank you for your service." Why were the words so stiff and stilted?

Elrohir cleared his throat. "Thank you for your kind words, Itarille. Now, if you will pardon me-" He looked unhappy to be in such a disordered and confused state.

"Of course." she blurted, moving away.

Outside the door Gwindel had slammed uninvitingly behind her, Itarille stopped and leaned against the wall. Her heart was racing, she felt dizzy and almost ill. But he was alive.


	9. Chapter IX: Stratagems

Chapter IX: Stratagems

The mossy glen was hidden in shadow, but a silver thread of trickling water caught the light of the Seven Stars of the North and gleamed faintly.

Through the branches, the constellation of _Cerch i-Mbelain_ blazed in the night sky. Elrohir breathed the soft breeze and thought that he had never seen a night so beautiful.

Within the small glade, the night sang with evening-birds and crickets. The sudden departure from the dark gateway of beyond made him see the night with new eyes.

On hearing a soft footfall, muffled by the moss, he struggled to his feet, one hand clamped to his side. From beneath the deep shadows, appeared the glint of gold hair. Itarille stepped out into the clearing, over the small mossy ridges caused by tree roots.

"I am glad to see that you have risen from your bed," she said, with a smile.

"I am likewise glad to have done so," he answered dryly.

She laughed. "Lord Glorfindel has knighted me his messenger for the evening. He wishes to see you over some matters of the House."

"Please tell Lord Glorfindel that any matter can wait until morning," Elrohir answered.

"It will delight me to do so," Itarille rejoined gaily.

Elrohir sighed. "No, no. I will go."

She turned back from the shelter of the wide-branched oak. "Of course. I will take you to him."

On either side of the path stretched a sloping bank, crowned with young trees and older ones, whose roots snaked down and sprawled into the woodland path.

Although the gibbous moon shed enough light for Elven eyes to see clearly, Elrohir stumbled often. He could feel his strength slowly seeping away. To go so far out had been foolhardy, and he had counted on several hours of rest before returning the House.

A little farther up the path, Itarille skipped over a branch, pausing by a spindle-tree in full flower, its rosy catkins in the shadow she cast. To his relief, she was not looking at him, so he leaned against the slope of the embankment.

Instantly, she darted back to him. "Are you well, Elrohir? I am sorry for going so fast- I was not thinking!"

He held up a hand and found his voice hoarse and ragged. "No need to ask my pardon. Only give me a moment's rest, and I shall be better."

Itarille had poised herself with an uncertain restlessness. "Are you certain? Would it not be better to call someone?"

"No!" The vehemence of his exclamation startled them both. "I would like better if you did not do so," he added more gently. "I do want wish to be considered as weak…as I appear." he finished.

Her face, quick to reflect every feeling, was unconvinced, but she relaxed her posture. The moments dragged slowly by.

The air was growing cooler as they waited, and the light of the stars was blocked with clouds.

"Rain is coming," said Itarille at last, for the sake of breaking the silence.

Elrohir held out his palm from under the cover of the foliage, and a few drops splattered on his palm. "We should hurry. This promises to be a violent storm."

But the rain lay in wait for them, for as soon as they stepped from their cover, it broke across Imladris in a broad billowing curtain.

They dashed into the forecourt, and then across. The marble pavement extended to the outer walls of the west side of the House and was roofed at the sides by the upper stories and supported by fluted columns of stone.

Under this shelter, they watched the rain splash onto the flagstones. Itarille shivered. "Brr! 'Tis a night to drown the very frogs!"

Elrohir laughed, a sound barely heard over the crash of rain. "Shall we go in?"

She said in a pouting, playful tone "Oh, must we? The storm is far more interesting."

"Glorfindel asked for me," he reminded gently.

"Yes, I suppose."

The edge of the roof was all hung with glass lamps of many hues, and their light was changed into fantastic shadows by the rain that dripped down their sides. Elrohir could not refrain from watching them a minute longer, and Itarille stood with her head tilted to one side like a curious bird.

The storm ended as suddenly as it had begun. The rain still dripped slowly, but the moon came out, and in the open court in front of them a great fountain crested, flashing for a brief moment, then falling onto the pavement in a shower of shadows.

They smelled petrichor, clear and refreshing. Itarille ducked her head and smiled shyly at him, he returned the smile for no more reason than how the night's beauty sang to his heart.

"Well, shall we go?" she inquired, at last, her eyes like fireflies, sparkling with such an innocent mirth that Elrohir answered it with a smile intended for her.

Her green eyes grew brighter, but her smile shyer. They passed through the great doors, gilded with gold and barred with steel.

"He is in his study," said Itarille. "Have a fair eve, Lord Elrohir."

"Likewise, Itarille, and thanks for playing the delegate."

She laughed lightly and said, "The pleasure was mine."

He smiled, nodded and went on his way. Glorfindel's door was open: golden light spilling into the hallway. Nonetheless, he knocked briskly on the door and entered without waiting for a response.

Glorfindel was reading a document. "Good evening, Elrohir." He laid down the manuscript. "League of the Forest and the Valley: the Imladris-Eryn Galen treaty. We are beholden to give them aid if they so request," he said by way of explanation.

"And why are you reviewing this?" Elrohir asked. He found a comfortable chair, and sat down, holding the small sigh of relief behind his teeth. "I though Oropherion refused our aid."

Glorfindel nodded. "He did, much to his Queen's dismay, and his people, I would wager," he said, by way of explanation. "The spawn of Shelob they can handle, and perhaps the companies of yrch that venture from Dol Guldor on marauds."

Elrohir arched an eyebrow inquisitively. "So?"

"It is the more powerful servants of the Necromancer, the _Úmaiar_ , they cannot restrain."

"And you think the gaur was sent from Dol Guldor?" he asked.

Glorfindel nodded, laying down the treaty. "Yes. Our emissaries sent to the Greenwood are not welcomed with open arms, but a sparse reconnaissance was managed. They found that the great spiders and the yrch count for very little among the evils of that realm. So, as even as the Necromancer spreads out his dark over more and more of Eryn Galen, he sends his servants westerly, towards the other Elven-kingdoms. The Galadhrim face the peril of the _Valarauco_. We have the Trollshaws until recently commanded by the _Ñauro_ , to limit us."

Elrohir frowned. "But the Greenwood is by far the worst. Why so? Why does this servant of the Nameless One strike hardest there?"

"I wish I knew." Glorfindel rose and walked over to the window. "All the reasons I can think are foiled by this or that. It is not near enough to Lothlórien or Imladris so an attack could be launched. It is a spawning place for evil, and this weakens the entire realm. Eryn Galen could not aid us lest the One Who Shall Not Be Named returns and commences an attack upon us or the Wood." he finished, frowning thoughtfully at the silver-faced moon.

"I think you have it, my friend," said Elrohir, reaching out and taking the treaty from the desk. "I would rather that the King had not refused our aid."

"We can hardly protect our own borders, maybe it was for good reason Thranduil refused," answered Glorfindel with unwonted force.

Elrohir glanced up from the treaty with hasty resentment. "The Trollshaws are not our borders."

"Do not cavil over trifles. They are near enough to be so."

"King Thranduil needs succor," said Elrohir, returning to the initial matter with flat emphasis.

"And we cannot give it to him. No doubt Lothlórien is in the same straits. This is truly a masterful scheme, to force us apart we must cling together or fall."

Elrohir frowned again. "You are morbid tonight. Either cheer yourself, or I will plead the excuse of my wound and turn towards my bed. Itarille said you requested me for some purpose." he added.

Glorfindel turned from the window. "Yes. The day after tomorrow is the Council."

"I know."

"Be prepared."

"How so?"

"Your brother's temper seems to be calmer since he returned, but condemnation from the Greater and Lesser Councils are not an easy thing to stomach. You and Arwen must both rally and soothe him."

Elrohir laughed incredulously. "Glorfindel, no one can calm him when he is angered."

"You wield more power over him than you think, and Arwen even more. He would never purposely disappoint or distress her."

Elrohir ran a hand over his head, catching stray hairs and pushing them away from his face. "I will remember your advice, my friend. Have you spoken to Arwen?"

Glorfindel shrugged. "In a way. She is ready."

"Can you give me a straight answer, for once?" Then Elrohir frowned, wondering in what way he should rise to avoid pain

The other Elf smiled. "Have a blessed night, my friend."

"The Válar guard your sleep," Elrohir mumbled, rising catching the doorframe before he could fall forward.

"Give me your arm."

"I do not need help!" he insisted stubbornly. _Adar_ had only let him leave his bed through dint of much coaxing and pleading on Arwen's part. If Elrond saw him as he was, he would be in the grip of the Healers for days. "I cannot be seen like this."

Glorfindel seemed to read his thoughts. "We will take this stairway." He pointed to a winding flight of steps that led from the back of his study up to the second-level hallway.

"Very well."

The journey to the Healing Wing was slow and arduous. Twice Elrohir insisted he could walk alone, and twice he fell like a child just learning to walk. Fuming with humiliation, as Glorfindel gently assisted him onto the bed, Elrohir collapsed against the pillows. "Thank you," he muttered.

"It was most timely," answered Glorfindel cheerily. "Would you have me fetch Celebrían?"

An intense _no_ was forming on his lips, but he suddenly found he did wish to see his mother, even if she did tell _Adar_ of his weakness. "Please," he said, revolted at the mewing quality of his voice.

It was a long time before he heard Celebrían's quick, firm footsteps on the common stair that led to the Healing Wing. She looked into the room and smiled when she saw him awake. "I was searching for you. Otherwise, I would not have been so tardy."

Elrohir returned her smile, propping himself on his elbow. "Are you busy, _Naneth_?"

"No, free as a bird, starling." She sat down on the edge of his bed, rested her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hand. "What is it?"

" _It_?"

She smiled. "Well, it is not often you ask your mother to tell you cradle-tales in bed. But if that is all, I shall be happy to oblige."

Elrohir laughed a little. "No, that is not why."

"I thought as much."

"I…..I…" He paused. "I feel lonely."

"And?" she insisted gently.

"Frightened." he continued haltingly. "Frightened at death. I was never so near to it as I was. Death has always come to another creature, sometimes by my hands. But it was never meant to come to me. Death. It is a word I have long known, but only now come to understand."

Celebrían looked at him for a long time. "Death is the Gift of Men," she said, at last, her voice soft and strained. "But we should accept death as a gift given, now ours as well in these latter days."

Elrohir looked towards her pleadingly. "But I fear death. I fear dying."

She smiled, reached over, and clasped his hand. "Who does not?"

Tears were stinging his eyes as he looked into hers, calm and firm and blue. She sat for a time, and then began to talk quietly. "Death for the Firstborn is a strange thing, that was never meant to be. We were not meant, in the beginning, to go beyond the tides of Time, nor discover the mystery that is called the Gift of Men. Rather, we were assigned a fate more bitter than men deem that of death. It is to fade and shrivel away. But at the end, the Lords of the West gave us another gift, a great gift, the gift to separate body from soul in dire need. But, it turned out, we are so deeply woven into the fabric of the Earth and the souls of the ones we love, very few do that, aye, _can_ do it. So it was a bittersweet blessing. Míriel Serindë was the first to discover death, to forsake her body when love for her husband and child was not enough. But it was rare that Elves did that. Rather, they would choose to be slain in the stead of departing, or they would sail if they escaped what torment caused them to wish for death.

Yet in the end, there are few who wish to die, to feel the silence and dark of the Halls of the Dead. For we are creatures of light and song, and such things are repugnant to us. You see, starling, fear of death is inborn to us. But fear is the only time one can be courageous. And in these days, you will stare death in the face again and again. I pray you may never take it. But, even if you never have to partake this gift, know it, and accept it as a gift and not a dread. And if you do fear, take comfort in this. For us, death is not the end. The blackness will not be eternal, for we were give one last gift. To return to light and love and laughter. That is our greatest gift. It is hope."

~.~

Celebrían left Elrohir's room when he was asleep. The night was cool and full of mist. The moon appeared fitfully, clouds scudding over its waxing face. She wondered if she had impressed it on her son how great her relief and love was.

She was sure of herself in many things, but for her, motherhood was only learned by many trials and many errors, and she still questioned whether it was her children's character, rather than her mothering, that caused them to become so noble, so beautiful in heart and soul.

She was proud of them, every minute of every day. Even in Elladan's rash venture, she found courage of heart and great skill, as was evidenced by his lack of wounds.

But she rarely shared her pride with them, and never overwhelmed them with praise. They were young saplings she was training: if there was too much sun, they would wither in her hands. Should she flood them with honeyed words, they would cease to grow, and become complacent.

With a short sigh, she paused at a great window, that stretched from floor to ceiling. Moonlight was spilling in, washing over her with its calm, majestic light. The rain was beginning to fall again, its first few drops glimmered, and then the moon was hidden by clouds.

Turning away, she determined to find Elrond.

He was not in his study, she found with mild surprise, nor any of his accustomed haunts. When she softly opened the door to Arwen's boudoir, expecting her to be asleep, and fearing to wake her with a knock, she found her daughter writing.

Arwen looked up with a smile. "Good evening, _Naneth_."

Celebrían returned the greeting. "Good evening, _melmel_. Have you seen your father?"

Arwen laid down her quill. "No, not since the evening meal."

"Very good. Thank you, and may the Válar watch over your sleep."

"Yours as well, _Naneth_ ," Arwen returned, and Celebrían shut the door behind her. Perhaps Elrond was searching for Elrohir. She wrapped herself in her cloak, and ducked outside, into the cool rain.

It tinkled and sang on the pavement, dripping from leaves and flowers that she could dimly see, but their fragrance was strengthened by the damp. Drawing great draughts of it into her lungs, she walked without haste.

She found him in the pine forest. Her footsteps swallowed up by the thick carpets of needles, she came on him unawares, and when he veered round at her gentle touch, she found the face she had fallen in love with many years ago.

He was not very changed. She saw a healing spirit in his grey eyes. His hair was black, but no longer bound in a warrior braid, as it had been when she first met him. After the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, he had released the plait that signaled his warrior rank. But his face remained the same, strong, tender, her beloved.

All guise of court that they must hold up before the eyes of others was forgotten: she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately, reveling in his tender nearness.

After a moment of being locked in his embrace, she gently pushed him away, to stand enraptured, caught in his eyes, and she did not think any time had passed away, from the moment they had met.

He smiled at her. "Are you recalling the time I met you covered in grime and blood?"

She laughed. Her laugh was something Elrond loved, a laugh that rang true and merry. "Yes, I was. You were so fair I was smitten at that moment."

"Then I think you must have admired the mire more than me."

Celebrían gave him a teasing smile. "I did reserve my final judgment until you were bathed."

~.~

Itarille flung herself on the bed, staring up the ceiling, laughter overflowing and spilling from her lips. She felt giddy, almost: wild with excitement as she remembered the boyish smile he had given her. The first was distant and bemused, but the second had been wholly hers. It was his smile that set him apart. It was alive, bright and youthful, like no other she had seen before. She began to think that the calm guise he wore he wore without knowing it. It was the price of being a Lord's son, to wear a countenance as inscrutable as a stone mask. The impassive visage was a monarchial skill, to steel and save a Lord.

But it was only a semblance. And she desired-oh, how greatly-to see him as he was.

Her pillows smothered her giggles, until she was made sober from the intoxicating memory by remembering he was indeed a Lord, and very far above her.

After that, she rolled over and returned to studying the ceiling, her green eyes wistfully solemn. "I would that I was a fair Lady," she murmured after a moment, addressing the carvings that adorned the cornice. "It would be a love story like is read about in old tales, where two of noble blood wed and live in peace."

"I wish my ceiling was so talkative," said Calwen dryly, swinging up the door. "I think I have been cheated, because mine remains mute."

Itarille raised her eyebrows and fell in with the play. "Yes, but it's impassive company, almost wooden."

"Your witticisms are trite," Calwen said matter-of-factly. "I came to wish you a good night."

Itarille stood up and embraced her sister fondly. Sometimes she forgot she was the elder. Calwen was not given to capricious whimsies, instead, she was firm, stable, consistent. Only reaching Calwen's shoulder augmented the feeling that she was, in truth, the youngest child. She realized then that she was, even if she was born first. Calwen had grown to womanhood overnight and never looked back. She clung to her childhood.

Her sister turned to the door and then looked back as if suddenly recalling something. "Ah! There is a colt lately weened. He is too skittish to be a warhorse, but he would make a fine hunter. Would you fancy a steed like that?"

"A colt?" Itarille repeated dubiously, remembering Rocaran. She had grown very fond of the man-horse, and after Elrohir had left, had grieved over him deeply.

Calwen smiled and shrugged. "Dwell on it for the night. Arwen proposed him as a gift to you, perhaps a song-reward."

Itarille nodded. "Many thanks, Calwen, I shall do that. Have a blessed night."

"Likewise."

~.~

The morning dawned bright and warm. On the lawns, a wealth of violets had bloomed overnight, and the verdure was a sudden carpet of deep purple.

Itarille went out early, forsaking her habit of practicing her archery while the morning was cool. Instead, she wished to see the colt.

She found him, still rather spindle-legged, in a far corner of the pasture. She leaned on the fence and watched him. He was skittish-the yellow butterfly that burst from the clover at his approach caused him to buck and run. But he was a fine-looking creature, Itarille thought dreamily, admiring the chest that promised to be broad. He was full in the flank, and clean-limbed already, and his coat was a rich bay.

All in all, he was beautiful, and he had the promise of swiftness was in his movements. Itarille climbed over the fence and clucked her tongue softly as he neared her in his runs.

The colt stopped abruptly. Itarille began to murmur softly, holding out her hand. He kicked up his heels and galloped around her.

"Come now, come now," she said in a coaxing tone, slowly reaching into her pocket and holding out a wrinkled apple.

Drawn by her voice and by the apple, he approached, nibbling at her green gown, then taking the apple.

Juice trickled from his mouth. He snorted and nudged her for more. Itarille laughed. "No, no, no more. What shall we call you?" A mischievous smile played on the corners of her lips. "Beretâl Bold-Foot I name you, and may you leave up to your name."

Newly christened, Beretâl snorted.

"Well, well met and farewell for the morning. I shall come again," she told him, going back over the fence.

The last she saw was him shying as a flock of robins burst from the shade-tree.

The morning meal was ended when she returned to the House. Entering the scullery, she found it empty as well.

"Melenesta," she pleaded to the only other creature there. "A little bread to break my fast would not go amiss."

Melenesta laid the bread to cool on the windowsill and said. "I believe that he who sleeps, later on, weeps-"

"But I was not sleeping, I was seeing my colt," interrupted Itarille.

"Yes, hence the apple missing from my storerooms," answered Melenesta dryly. "Don't think you escaped unseen."

Itarille flushed. "Melenesta, it was one apple," she wheedled. "Only a crust of bread, and I will do what you wish."

The other laughed, with a touch of grimness. "Anything?"

It was too late to repent of her promise. She swallowed and her glance strayed towards the pile of platters lying by the wash-tub. "Yes…"

Melenesta took down the loaf cooling on the windowsill, cut off a hearty slice and covered it with spring butter and jelly. "There is your morning meal, but the price for your tardiness will be to wash these platters."


	10. Chapter X: Curiosity Killed the Cat

Chapter X: Curiosity Killed the Cat:

Satisfaction Brought it Back

 **A\N. So far, this story does not revolve around Itarille and Elrohir. Please, be patient. I need to explain the characters and situation completely so their actions will be understandable when I actually get into the romance. I also want to add that the idea of Melian and Thuringwethil's "sisterhood", as well as Thuringwethil's Quenya name, was made in collaboration with** _ **Ardhoniel Marvelite**_ **.**

It was the night before the trial. A brilliant mist of stars sparkled in the cool night air, and there was mist on the fells. A capricious breeze danced through the open windows of Arwen's boudoir. She sat in the recess by the window, her knees drawn up to her chin. Beside her, the yellowed sheaf of papers lay in disarray, the breeze tugging at their crumpled edges.

She was playing with her brooch, made of amber stones set in silver filigree, turning it over and over as if in the chaste sheen of silver she could find an answer.

Her fingers felt the chased metal, unconsciously memorizing its surface. She had pried into secrets that were not hers to meddle with. Glorfindel had not forbidden her, but she felt guilty nonetheless, prying into things better left to time and its ghosts.

She had scorned this rule, and read the writings of a far-off time with ravenous curiosity. But now, like a glutton who eats too much at the festive board and later pays the price for his greed, she was paying the price for her prurience. She felt sick at heart, and cold.

Glorfindel? A kinslayer? She had read of the Kinslaying of Alqualondë, of course, but had never associated him with it. A murderer? Her blood was suddenly ice in her veins. Laughing golden-haired Glorfindel, a second father to her? The one who had taught her to ride? Oh, she knew he was dangerous: who had not heard songs of how he had thrown down the Balrog?

But he had been there, he had taken part. If not, then how had he described it such exquisitely painful detail, until she could hear the screaming, the shouts to rally, the sound of swords plunging into flesh, the dying sinking to their knees, with their last breath cursing the betrayal of the Ñoldor. And the haze of madness in the faces of those who followed the _Silmarilli_ and their Maker, lustful, desperate…..murderous.

She covered her face with her hands, the brooch dropping to the floor. _O ye gods_ , she whispered. Her head came up sharply. _You knew his sins, and you sent him back_.

For the first time, an aching doubt crept into her mind. Was she mistaken? Surely she must be, the Válar did not seek to harm the rebel Eldar.

 _And the punishment for your sins shall endure until the third and fourth generation_. Perhaps this was a punishment, punishing the children for the sins of their forefathers, by planting a murderer in their midst.

She was angry with herself, at how quick she was to brand Glorfindel as a murderer. How disloyal she was to him, how quick to desert him. But the words he had written, they were as clear as if he had words written on his forehead, proclaiming him KINSLAYER.

A tear trickled down her cheek. There was another explanation. There had to be.

Glorfindel….he was not a murderer.

It was so long ago, she reasoned. Surely guilt can be effaced by the passing of time, blood-stained hand can be washed clean after ten hundred centuries of good deeds.

She drew up short at that. No, the murder of innocents was one stain that could never be erased or forgiven.

Arwen drew a deep breath into her chest. She would talk to Glorfindel before she spoke to anyone else about this. He had the right to know.

Clutching the papers with fingers angry at their mute betrayal, she balanced on the windowsill for a minute and then leaped down. It would be the quickest way to Glorfindel's chambers, at the other end of the House, and she would not be seen.

Laburnum trees grew by her window, long-hanging clusters, cascades of golden blossoms that filled the still air with a tremblingly sweet scent.

A nightingale sang, soft and thrillingly low, setting the night dancing to its tune.

She hurried on bare feet through the damp grass. There was still a light burning in Glorfindel's chambers. Almost covertly, she crept up the stairs to the balcony. The floor-length window was drawn back, so she stepped through the curtains.

"Glorfindel? Are you here?"

"Yes, Arwen." He was not sitting by the candle that flickered on the desk. She looked around, finally espying the glimmer of golden hair.

"Did I wake you?"

"No." He looked at her. "Arwen, were you crying?"

Her hand jerked up to brush away the tears on her lashes. "No."

Glorfindel sighed and rose from the bed where he had been sitting. "You have been, _él nìn_." he reproached. At the pet-name, tears rose to sting to her eyes again, and though she fought, one trickled down and the traitor candle-light caught it before she could wipe it away. "And you are," he added. "Come, let us sit on the balcony. It is a warm night, and the stars are bright." As she listened, she realized that Glorfindel's use of the Grey-tongue was still tinged with that distinct Ñoldorin accent which characterized all Exiles.

The Grey and Green Elves had always held misgivings regarding the Ñoldorin Exiles, but Glorfindel had won even King Thranduil's chary regard, despite his checkered past.

None could be long in his company without growing to love him. He was kind to all, unreservedly and undiscriminatingly, wise and strategic. Merry too, something sorely needed in these times, when the Enemy's hurts ran so deep only a greater hurt could begin to heal them.

Fell-handed with spear and blade, in moments of peace Glorfindel also wielded brush and pen. Only occasionally did he incorporate living figures into his scenery, and when he did they were small, such as in his mid-noon rendering of the Echoriath, a hint of a path between marvelous stone so defined with light and shadow that it seemed one could step through it into an Age and place that was no more. There, on a peak, sat a small figure, delicate and upright, but shown from the back. When Arwen had inquired why that angle, Glorfindel had only said he feared to do injustice to do her beauty. She had always thought that the woman with the pale gold hair was Idril Celebrindal, her ancestress, but the hair had been too fair. But he had never said who it was.

She could not help it: she loved him like a father and a friend. She threw her arms around him, and sobbed out as he returned the embrace, slow because of surprise, "You were at the First Kinslaying, Glorfindel!"

He pushed her away, and she saw a light in his blue eyes, a light she had sparked that was terrible. Despite herself, despite her bravery on the field, she shrank away. His voice was controlled and cold, like steel, each word reinforcing that Glorfindel was more than what she had ever thought.

"Who told you so?"

Her hand was trembling as she held up the papers, but she swallowed and braced herself. "I read these papers. You described Alqualondë. It was so real, Glorfindel, so real…" She choked back a sob. "You could never have written this through hearsay."

"No, nor would anyone have told me," he said gently. "Come out on the balcony, Arwen, and if you desire, I will tell you all, like I have not told anyone. But I warn you my story is dark, and if you hear it, you will sit less at ease."

Not trusting her voice to answer, she followed him out on the balcony. Below him stretched the broad expanse of the lake, sparkling in the starlight, and the turbulent waterfall was white and foaming as it cascaded down into it.

"Please, tell me," she whispered. "Please, Glorfindel. I want t-to trust you again."

"I owe you that," he said.

She sat down in the corner, gripping the iron balusters that twisted and spiraled under her hand. He stood, looking over the valley. The cold light of the stars robbed the warmth from his face and set a fire in his eyes until he seemed a Lord returned from an Age forgotten and destroyed, passed beyond fire and death to a new time. His golden hair blew back in the wind, and a light glimmered around him: a king returning from exile to his own land. And yet, though she saw a King, Arwen sensed something more. The wind playing through his golden hair and dark raiment made him seem some prince of the dead ready to pay his respects to the fallen. At once from this Age and from another, he walked in both realms, a wraith and a Lord, one and the same. She stared at him, as one cannot help stare enthralled at a ghost. The world in which they were walking now was not her own, and it was rare and terrible when such paths should cross, beyond time and reason.

His voice seemed from far away. "I swore an oath of fealty to the House of Ñolofinwë, Fingolfin in the Grey-Elf tongue. And so when he led the Second Host of the Ñoldor to the aid of Fëanáro at the Havens, I marched with him. We thought the _Nelyar_ were tried to waylay us.

And I saw it all. The fire roared and screeched like bitter, thwarted rage, lit by some torch fallen on the deck of a ship. It was a slaughter." Tears were silently streaking across his face, and Arwen looked at him, reminded of a specter returned to some otherworldly tryst, one who had walked that forgotten path of crumbling stones to his youth to remember the blood.

"I drew my sword, Arwen. But not against the _Nelyar_. No, I saw. And I knew. I saw mothers quick with child die at the end of the swords of Noldor Princes. They begged for mercy, not for them, but for their children. No other begged. The After-Comers, we called them, but they were proud. They fought in silence, fought and were mown down like grass before a scythe. And I stood, frozen as if time did not matter, as if innocents were not falling before my eyes. What was right, Arwen?" he begged suddenly. "What was right? Should I have charged my father's kin or stood with them? The war raged all about me, a tide of crimson. I saw a maiden, her silver hair bloodied, crawling over the bodies of her kin. She wore a gown of silk, blue paler than the sky, and girdles of hammered silver and pearls, her hands and tangled hair glittering with diamonds. Perhaps it was her wedding day.

I saw Caranthir, mad with his father's fury, raise his sword to kill her.

There were no tears, no screams, no pleas for life. She looked at him in silence and cursed him with her blue, blue eyes, violent as a sea storm, full of fury unquenchable. And he was afraid. There is nothing more to be feared than a woman who is so fearless.

I stopped the blow with my sword, pushing his aside so the stroke sliced through the empty air, catching the blade and twisting with mine.

The sword clattering on the marble tiles of the floor was as loud as a scream.

Our eyes met above her, my sword to his throat.

We spoke no words: what words were there to say? The woman at our feet, her hand clamped to the gaping wound in her side, said it all as she mutely crouched.

'Traitor,' he snarled, for he knew I would not slay him. He picked up his sword and was gone.

I cradled her head in my lap, silver and crimson, silver and crimson, and closed her eyes forever. Silver and crimson, Arwen, burned forever on my eyelids.

The whole world was crimson, save for the _Nelyar's_ star-silver hair.

We never spoke of it, but it hung like a shadow over our faces. The light-that light of grace and innocence all Eldar bear in our eyes-was dimmed. But though we did not speak of it, in a way it was our gonfalon, for we rallied around it, knowing once we did it, we could do it again, and again.

I went, because I had sworn an oath, a pledge of fealty to Ñolofinwë and all his House, and I would never forswear that vow.

And I went, because Turukanò followed his father, and took with him his baby daughter, Idril, the Silverfoot. She was a strange child, cursed with foresight and burdened with wisdom. She laughed little and talked less, and to few did she give her heart's love wholly, but when she did, she gave her love with her whole heart. There were four whom she loved.

The first was her mother. Idril loved her beyond time or any manner of reason. When I pulled her from the freezing waters, she looked into my eyes and asked me ' _Why?_ ' At the first, I thought she was asking why, the injustice of fate, or the pride of Fëanáro that drove us here, but later I knew.

Why, she was asking, had I saved her, and not her mother. But even I had forsaken the child, I could not have saved the mother. Elenwë's time was over, her thread in the tapestries of Vairë had snapped.

The second was her father, Turukanò, who loved her with a despairing tenderness, but despite all his wisdom, could not see the change wreaked on his daughter.

The third was Írissë, Aredhel Ar-Feniel, as you know her. Shall I ever see again a woman wrought all of steel and pride, tempered enough to withstand a blow without ever denting, and strong enough to give it back tenfold in measure? And when the evils of Ennor cursed her, she hunted them down and slew them. But she was cursed, cursed at the Battle of the Lhammoth, and none save I ever knew. But I shall tell you of that later.

The fourth was I, Laurëfindil the Golden-Haired, too slow to retreat, too quick to strike. She told me once, as we went riding, never to call her Idril Celebrindal. 'In Gondolin,' she said, 'I am Idril the Golden. I am the joy of Gondolin and the comfort of my father. Outside Gondolin, I am Celebrindal the Silver, I am the Dancer, the one who sings with the wind and shares no comfort nor gives any joy. I am as savage as the storm.' She laughed a little, a girlish laughter that was strange on her wise lips. 'Do not look at me in askance. Once, yea, I was one, gold and silver threads woven into the same weft, but these were torn apart during the Grinding Ice. I am never Celebrindal within those white walls, and I am never Idril out here.' Her words, like all her words, were mysterious, but I respected her request. In truth, I did not doubt that her wisdom, which sprung from prescience, was not a foresighted gift from the Válar, proclaiming that though we had forsaken them, they had not wholly forsaken us. Did they not give us Idril, blessed and cursed in equal measure with foreknowledge, who saved Gondolin?

That is why I came to the shores of Ennor: my pledge to a Lord and my love for his daughter."

Arwen looked at him. Each of his words rang true, reinforced with an underlying current of blood and tears.

He met her eyes, and a sad shade of a smile came to his lips. "You would have me tell you more? Very well, I will do that."

Glorfindel turned his face back to the starlight and began to speak again. "You are thinking of your ancestress and the White Lady. First, I will tell you of Írissë the Fearless, Daughter of the Hunt.

In your history lessons do you recall the _Dagor-nuin-Giliath_ , the Battle Beneath the Stars, in the Land of the Great Echo?"

Arwen nodded, and his voice grew even more distant, dreaming, far away.

"I still remember how the moon rose for the first time. The world was shrouded in mist. And then I saw silver, slivers, painting the black sky in the colors of royalty. Light seemed to reach for me in the stillness, setting the air aglow, and the wind grew stronger and stronger. Then I remembered Telperion and looking up beheld only a dim remembrance of the Tree in that great, silver, skyborne globe.

You know of the Battle Beneath the Stars, how the Orcor ambushed us. Turukanò and I, with the remnant of Arafinwë's Golden House, being in the vanguard, were swept away on the first onslaught.

I fought my way back to Idril's side, for she was no more than a child, and I saw Írissë standing over and shielding her. And by the cold light of the newborn moon, I saw a woman clad in white. She was neither young nor old, but looked as a woman in the high summer of her life. She was beautiful, beautiful as the sweetest, darkest sin, and though she was in the midst of a battlefield, not a single drop of blood stained her gown or person. She hovered on barbed bat-wings, black hair floating in the night behind her, like a hunter foiled of her prey, and I have no doubt that Itarildë-that is, Idril, was the prey.

When she saw me coming, she knew that she could not stand against two, still blessed with the light of the Válar, so she spoke to Írissë, who was staring at her, dauntless, ready to strike.

' _The Darkness you hunt, that Darkness shall catch you, and change you_.' she said, her voice low and cold, and a smile was on her lips and sparkled in her blood-lustful eyes. ' _That is my curse on you, O proud Írissë!'_

Hardly before she had finished speaking, Írissë stabbed at her and tore the hem of the white gown, but the winged woman was gone like a bat in the night. ' _Mark my words! I go where the evilest wind blows, so I will be with thee wherever thou wanderest, Daughter of the Hunt!'_

Írissë made no sign, neither blanched nor fainted. She only lifted little Itarildë in one arm and called to me. ' _Back to back, Laurëfindil! Back to back, and we may make it through_!'

It was only at Nevrast, as we began to build the great city of Vinyamar, that I got up my courage to speak to her. For I recognized that bat-winged woman. Her name was Nuldë, Thuringwethil in your tongue, Arwen. She was sisters with Melyanna the Beloved, but ere long, her love changed to Mairon with an all-consuming adoration, and she was bound into Melko's service.

Later on, I knew this for a dread-certainty, for did not Eöl the Dark entrap proud Írissë in Nan Elmoth, a twisted echo of the enchantment that bound Melian and Thingol together, with the shreds of magic that had held them motionless for years? And I do not doubt it was Thuringwethil's work, for love changed to hate towards her sister, and she sought to defile with dark dwimmercraft even the memory of Melian's love.

Írissë bade me not to speak of it to anyone, nor did she give any outward sign that she feared, but I believe that she went into Nan Elmoth to have done with the fear, to prove to herself that Nuldë's curse meaningless and void. And there she was lost."

He paused for a moment, and Arwen murmured. "Why have I never read that?"

"Have you ever been in a hall of stone?" he asked.

She nodded.

"So, what becomes of an echo each time it returns?" he asked. "At first it is faithful, but it quickly weakens. So is truth weakened, becoming falsehood. The history books are but echoes of a time long past, weakening each time the story is retold. Now, do you still wish to hear of Idril Silverfoot?"

Arwen stood slowly. She was shaking as if she had been thrust back and forth between two places, without time to gather breath. Her limbs were weak. She clutched the balustrade until her knuckles were white, and the bones showed beneath her pale skin.

Concern showed in Glorfindel's face. "Arwen….I am sorry…at times, I still do not recognize the extent of my power."

Power. Yes. She had seen it all, had his memories flash before her eyes. He had shown it to her: she had felt all that he had felt, smelled, seen, heard.

She had noticed it in other things. At times, he was still unused to the marvelous physical strength the Válar had gifted him with on his second return to Ennor. He would pick up a goblet with a careless grip that would dent the gold of the chalice as if he was still the Glorfindel of Gondolin, who had strength no more remarkable than that of his fellow warriors. How else could he have slain the werewolf? His mind was as keen and brilliant as the eyes behind which it hid: all the skills he had been born with were intensified ten times over, Arwen guessed. He was formidable to both living and the dead, to man or beast or _Maia_.

She held up her hand as he moved to help her. "No, Glorfindel, I am well. Only…give me a minute. You are right: you do not know your own strength."

Finally, when the urge to retch had passed, she stood up, brushing strands of hair from her face. "Thank you for telling me all this," she said simply, looking him in the eye. She read something there, something she could not quite identify. Was it relief or pain? She realized it was both. "And I am sorry, Glorfindel, for being so quick to brand you as a murderer. I should have known."

"It was good judgment, Arwen, and judgment cannot be clouded because you know the accused." he returned with a wan and weary smile. "I will answer your other questions later: will that suit? You deserve to know more of your ancestress, and I swear, I will tell you of Gondolin and her, but not now. I am at liberty tomorrow afternoon."

He looked at her, and a smile of a different sort brightened his face. "This night, I have work of a different nature to do." He paused and then said. "That of forswearing my ghosts. The present is too precious to linger in the past."

Her smile was soft and sweet and surprised. Then she held out the sheaf of papers. "Keep them," she said. "They do more good to you than they do to me."

Glorfindel took them: she smiled again and whispered "Good night." Then she was gone with the airy grace of a sylph.

She ran down the stairs she had crept up so forebodingly, free of history's hold on the present. The moon was shining, and green leaves flickered like candlelight, creating a newness from moment to moment, casting shadows now here, and now there.

The nightingale was still singing: she added her song to its heartbreaking sweetness for a few minutes, before she entered through a side door, rarely used, ducking underneath a waving mass of lilac plumes.

The House was silent and cool. She heard whispers and quiet weeping and knew many were sleepless because of grief that night. Her shadow picked a way through the pale quartz floors of sleepy hallways, ducking in and out of other shadows.

"Arwen? Why are you awake?"

"Because I am not a child anymore," she said teasingly. "I do not need to go to my bed the instant the sun sets."

Elladan laughed. "One who knew you less would think you had lost count of time under the trysting tree."

"Nonsense!" she said, tossing her hair scornfully, and shifted to the offensive, unsure if Glorfindel wanted her to tell all or any of what had happened. "Why were you lying in wait for me like a highway thief?"

He admitted it with good grace. "I wanted to speak to you. Tomorrow is the trial."

Arwen sobered. "I know."

"Yes, and I do as well. Naneth and Adar asked you to side with me during that time."

Her answer came late, and when it did, it was slow. "Yes."

"Do not."

She tried to see his face, but the shadows were hiding it. "Why not?"

"Because what I did was wrong, and I will not have you try to justify a misdeed." He turned to look at her, and they stopped in a flood of moonlight. "Do you hear me?"

"I hear you. But it does not mean I will obey you." she countered. "Your rashness does not mean I will forsake you. You are my brother."

"I know that, but Arwen!" he said in exhausted exasperation, though Arwen thought she caught a glint of gratitude in his grey eyes. He had been made to do this by his strong sense of right, but her resolution to stay by his side had lifted him up, made him know that he was not alone in this matter.

Elladan looked Arwen up and down in silence, at odds with himself, a hunter foiled by his prey, who suddenly find he is glad of it.

"Elrohir said the same thing," he said at last.

"Of course he did," answered Arwen fiercely. "And I would be ashamed of him if he had not."

There was a brief silence: a monody was being sung, and they listened in quiet reverence as the singer spoke of the fallen.

When the last plaining notes died away on the night air, Arwen ventured to speak. "Are you prepared?"

"No. How should I be?"

"It would be wise not to anger the Council," she said cautiously. "That will only serve to your downfall."

"I know, I know. What do you think my punishment shall be?" he ended, his voice denying his timid words.

"You were lowered from your rank as captain!" she flashed back indignantly. "What more punishment do you need?"

"Arwen," he answered, as if explaining a complex matter to a young child. "I put those who followed me into needless danger."

"None were killed!" she protested. "That is more than can be said for the second battle!"

"But you forget that that second battle accomplished our purpose!"

Arwen subsided. "Yes. That is so." She paused and shifted the subject. "Will they really hold the trial tomorrow? After all, that is the day of festivity."

"It will be held in the early morning," he assured her. "Nothing will impede the day's merriment."

"Yes, I suppose you will be as gay a spring song-bird," she replied, her voice saturated with irony.

"Arwen, it is only justice. Besides, if as you say, they will do no more than confirm my relegation, it will be no surprise. And I will try to be merry for your sake, little sister."

"And will you dance?" she asked.

"That is a step too far. I said I would be merry." he corrected, smiling.

"Elladan," she pleaded. "Find a pretty Elf-maid and dance. Many would be tripping over their own feet to dance with you."

"That is precisely what I do not wish," he answered. "I have no use for a silly creature who simpers and coquettes."

"Oh, you are demanding!" she chided him, laughing. "Very well, suit yourself. But if you are still alone in two hours' time, I will find you a partner, I swear it."

"Spare me from that!" he said, holding up his hands in mock-surrender. "Your choice is unerringly appalling."

"It is to spur you to find your own partner!"

They suddenly realized how loud their voices and laughter was, and how disrespectful it would look towards the Green-Elves.

The _Laiquendi_ were as tight-knit as a family. If one of them mourned, the grief was borne by all. If one of them was joyful, that joy was shared with all. Their mourning rites were brutally quick, but that did not prevent a _Moriquendë's_ grief from equaling a _Caliquendë's_ , only they hid it away in their hearts, instead of making any outward display of sorrow.

Each feeling somewhat ashamed, they bid each other good night and went their separate ways, their blithe mood stifled by the overwhelming weight of death.

~.~

Elrond paused in his work, the paper soaking up blue-black ink into the shape of carefully formed _Tengwar_. The curtains were billowing in the capricious breeze, and he saw by the westering moon that it was the wee hours of the morning.

It was not the lack of sleep that bothered him, it was instead, the absence of any rest from his labors. As varied as they were, they grew monotonous but increasingly harder to shoulder. Celebrían assisted him in all his endeavors. In military strategies she was proficient, and many other areas. But she lacked any diplomatic tact, and although it would have been a sign of trust to send her as a delegate, he could not for fear that her frankness would offend.

He looked across the room, and smiled at seeing her asleep, her silver hair in shining waves across the pillows. He studied her face: the long black lashes, the expressive eyebrows. Her forehead was lofty and noble, her cheekbones high, her skin pale as white cream. Her lips were finely-formed, but them-and her strong chin-had something about them that betokened pride and strength of will. He saw in her a nearly-dauntless fervor, a rose that had ample thorns.

His first thought on meeting her had not been that she was beautiful, but rather, that she was strong. That she was beautiful had come after, he had only seen that prideful, amazingly steadfast and intense creature.

He had always half-hated to see her sleep. She looked vulnerable, and that shook his beliefs about her. The intensity was there, beneath her blue eyes that were glassy with sleep, the steadfastness all contained in her deceitfully slim body, but somehow, it was not her when she slept.

Elrond turned back to his work. Despite beliefs about the concessions of being a Lord, he worked ceaselessly. But then privilege and idleness should never go hand in hand. This conviction was reflected in all of Imladris. All those who sought to join any profession, be it healer, minstrel or warrior, had to rise through their own minds and labors, rather than birth. They began as the lowest, even if they were sons or daughters of renown. His own children had not been excluded from this. Elrohir and Elladan had risen from foot soldiers to captains. Arwen, equal parts lore-mistress and warrior, had done the same. They had served those whom, by blood and birth, they were higher than, and it had taught them a great deal of humility and respect for personal attributes. _Do not ask others to do for you what you cannot do yourself_ , _for rank without merit is nothing_ , he had taught them.

"Elrond?"

"I am here, my love," he said softly.

Her lashes fluttered. "The dawn will be in an hour," she remarked sleepily. She was an excellent judge of direction and time based off the position of the stars, sun, and moon.

"Yes," he agreed.

She sat up and ran a hand through her long hair. It fell almost to her knees when she stood. Like her mother before her, her one vanity was her hair, and she considered growing it to her feet. "This dawn marks the end of _Arairea_ ¹," she remarked suddenly. "I had almost forgotten."

"Indeed. And today is the trial."

"Yes," she said, and together they watched the sky blossom, pale rose, like the breath of color, and dawn spread hands of flowers across the sky.

¹ Day of Mourning.


	11. Thorns

Chapter XI: Thorns

 _Whatever you are running from, it will catch you in the end. Wherever you go, your past will follow you_. Idril's words of old beat in his heart like a savage drum. _You cannot escape it, but by admitting it. Your past does not belong to the past unless you make it so, and it will haunt your present and future unless you deny it that right._

So clear was her voice, it seemed she stood in the shadowy room beside him. He thought he could see her eyes-so bright and blue and brilliant, so guileless, that hid a perfect knowledge. Idril could know a man with one glance, his inmost thoughts and dreams, all the while upholding the appearance of innocent and beautiful youth. If Turgon struck with serpentine precision, Idril read hearts with feline enticement. But they were equally deadly, equally wise, although Idril might have possessed the greater clairvoyance of the two.

He breathed deeply and looked around. It was not Idril.

He saw warm eyes, dancing eyes, aglow with playfulness and lustering happiness, gentle features, pale straight hair.

Valossë? _Silquelosseën_? he asked, putting the old pet name to her. He strained at the bond that held them. It seemed so brittle and frail, damaged by the barrier the Válar had laid between Ennor and Valinor.

It was only the faintest of whispers he received, an echo that came at the cost of great pain.

 _Malaphindë_. ¹

She was gone. His power could no longer uphold _Òsanwe_. Clutching his head in both hands, he waited for the sheet of pain to recede. When he could think clearly, he began to read, her gentle voice still in his mind.

The papers rustled beneath his hands, dry leaves about to return to the dust. He studied the writing carefully, as if it was alien, meaning no more to him than a yesterday song.

In places, the ink was blotched. His tears, he realized, and also realized with a sudden clarity that they did not matter. They were tears of a past Age, why should they affect him now?

He wondered how this should have escaped the Rape of Gondolin. Only three in all great Gondolin had read what he had written: Valossë, Ecthelion, and Idril.

Both Valossë and Ecthelion had fallen: that left only Idril to have carried this out with her. What a strange thing to save when so many treasures had burned. He was grateful to her, nonetheless, and smoothed the parchment's edges with gentler fingers because of it.

Much of what was written were poems, heavy things that sprawled clumsily across the paper, forced rhyming and trifling meaning.

This was when he was beginning, when Valossë had slowly guided his pen. She would not make rhymes for him, nor dictate what he should write of, only encouraged and instructed as they watched the words unspool across the page.

He read slowly, seeing as many memories as words, but the last poem made him start. He said it silently to himself, as dawn spread its first grey light over the pine hills. Then he turned to the lyre, that lay dusty and unused for the most part. His mother had taught him to play when he was young, for lyres and harps were a peculiarity of the Light-Elves.

In Gondolin, in days of peace, he had been a fledgling minstrel under Ecthelion's teaching, and had learned the lute, and perfected the art of song.

So with a gentleness that toed the line of fear, he picked up the lyre from its resting place and plucked the string. A gentle strum sang in the room. He tried again, with bolder fingers, fingers that were guided to play notes he did not know. Elegiac, sad and sweet, it resounded in the still room, and he sang to that lamenting melody: his eyes filled with the white wings of sails upon a raging sea, his ears filled with the curse of the Doomsman.

"Speed hence, speed hence, O lone white sails

Across the wind-sprent foam

The wave alone your father now, the wind alone shall kiss your brow

And marrèd earth shall be your home.

Speed hence, speed hence, O lone white sails!

To make your age-long quest

Ten thousand years on Ennor's wild breast

Ten thousand years barred from the West.

Speed hence, speed hence, O lone white sails!

Your cries shall be in vain.

For all the blood and tears and aching years

You shall not come again."

~.~

Glorfindel's song was not the only elegy heard in that time before the dawn, for when morning came, _Arairea_ would be over and _Ar-mereth aderthad_ ² would begin. Death struck the immortal heart deeply, and there was always a vein of sorrow that ran beneath the joy of victory, rendering triumph bittersweet. Survival was a blessing dearly bought.

Itarille sat by her window, resting her chin in her arms as she looked out. Life was beautiful, but tragically so. The grief that pervaded all Imladris stabbed at her heart, but another thought was preying on her, and it was this thought that spread a patina of unease across her face.

Calwen's tidings inevitably grew grimmer, whenever she returned from her forays. Although she tried to shield her sister from it, Itarille caught words and glimpses, and inklings grew until she was certain. A darkness was spreading out, moving again. Orcs were stirring in the Hithaeglir. Eryn Galen was hard beset.

And when that time did come, when Imladris was besieged like the Greenwood-what would happen to her?

Imladris had been overwhelmed in her lifetime, during the Angmar War. It had been lifted by reinforcements from Lothlórien, where she had been dwelling at the time, visiting her mother.

Since then, Faelwen had followed the Westcall. The ache for a mother had faded over time, leaving a subdued longing that could be repressed. She had learned to avoid the things that reminded her of Faelwen-ningloth, a golden water-lily she had loved, a song she used to sing, even wearing a chaplet braid, where the front part of the hair was braided and bound around the head like a wreath. Neither she nor Calwen ever wore that braid, nor sang that song, nor watched ningloth that floated here and there. That would be to open up a wound that had been nearly closed-nearly, but not quite.

She pushed the thought of her mother away from her wandering mind and returned to the original matter. Minstrels were only useless mouths to feed in time of war. It was the warriors that were needed-Calwen, Arwen, Elrohir. Her errant mind lingered on that name. She had not seen him since she had given him Lord Glorfindel's message.

The sky lightened ever-so-slightly, heralding dawn. A lone blackbird began a warbling accolade for spring, and more and more birds joined in the song as if they knew that today was a day of joy.

For some, that was.

~.~

A pale streak grew in the East, like the breath of color. Then serene and dewy dawn blossomed across the firmament, and the sun flung her hand over heaven's rim.

Elrohir sat on his bed, braiding his hair back from his face. The serene familiarity of his rooms, the old bookshelves, the desk covered with scrolls-Elladan must have been looking for something while he was in the Healing Wing-had never been so beautiful to him. He studied the tapestry that hung in the northern corner of the room: a depiction of Menegroth that he had always admired for its intricate detail.

He studied it, trying to rid himself of the cold fear that made his fingers so clumsy and caused him to undo his braid twice before he was satisfied.

The Greater and Lesser Councils would be assembled within an hour, for Elladan's trial.

He found his siblings outside the doors of the council-chamber. Like him, Elrohir was dressed humbly, like himself, trying to find a balance between pride and respect, but Arwen stood out like a cardinal among sparrows, her clothes the brightest of all them all.

She wore a gown of lapis-blue made of a sheened cloth, with a belt of silver ivy and a carcanet of the same material. Her glossy hair was carefully arranged in raven waves, but even so, there was nothing brazen in her appearance, only a gentle anxiety that could not be misconstrued.

Her innocent appearance made Elrohir wonder if she had a card to play, but in any case, her look could not but work in their favor. "No chicanery," he warned.

She rolled her eyes at him.

They waited for some minutes, straining their ears for any noise inside. But as much as they longed for it, Elrohir's breath caught for a second in his throat when he heard the doors open.

Glorfindel nodded to them. "Enter." There was a note of pity in the rigid formality of his voice.

Elladan stiffened for a blink of an eye, and then followed.

The council-chamber, which was also served an audience-room, was one of the fairest rooms of all Imladris. Great windows ran from ceiling to floor in a wide aisle, all looking towards the West. The floor was of white marble, veined with silver, and from it rose columns of chased silver, ornamented with foliage wrought in relief. These pillars upheld the roof and came together at their crowns to form pointed arches, that were so ornately carved that they looked like the finest lace. They were evenly spaced every three ells and positioned so they did not obstruct the council-board, which was a great circular table of blue marble. Here sat the Greater and Lesser Councils, and the War Council, which was made up of the chieftains of the three cadres, the Captain of the Guard, and the Lord and Lady of Imladris, or, if they were not present, their children.

Elrohir had often admired this room for its architectural precision and beauty, but now the cold marble seemed merciless and gloatingly hard. Their footsteps rang in deafening echoes: the counsel-board loomed like a throne of doom. It was a chill and hollow feeling that he had in his heart.

He did not listen to the preamble given, instead, he studied the faces, searching for something to help them on the way. But most of them were cast as stony as the table before which they sat.

He flitted over the countenances of his parents, knowing that because of their own unbending sense of honor, they would be the least likely to speak in Elladan's favor.

He did not know Gildor Inglorion well. Merry at need, he had withdrawn more and more into solitude. Arwen read minds adroitly; he threw a questioning glance at her.

She caught his eye, and for a flitting second he saw the sea.³

The West-Call. Of course.

The next face he saw was Avadion's. Valiant to a reproach, he might have some fellow feeling for Elladan's plight. Indeed, in his eyes, Elrohir caught a glimpse of faint admiration.

Helnor's face was impassive. He was never one to display his thoughts easily.

Lean and lithe, Laineth was studying them in turn: the one with eyes that could track a falcon on a cloudy day. She caught Elrohir's eye and gave him a subtle nod. Here at least, he had an ally.

Glorfindel's voice plucked him out of his concentration. It was clear and sincere as ever: he would speak the truth, and try and temper it with kindness. "Rashness, especially in a leader, leads only to destruction. But, we know the feeling of the hot blood rushing in our veins, do we not? Rashness is an intrinsic part of youth."

"But if the youth is a position of leadership, it cannot be ignored as readily as it would be otherwise." objected Celebrían. There was a frisson of tension as she locked eyes with Glorfindel. The Silver Lady was not noted for her leniency towards those who had wronged her or her house, even if the ill-doer was one she held dear. On the other hand, as a remnant of Gondolin, Glorfindel was acutely perceptive to any vulnerability harbored in the realm, and if he trusted Elladan, that trust could not be lightly thrown aside.

He inclined his head. "You speak the truth. But before we may continue, we must hear Elladan's defense." Glorfindel turned to the eldest child of Celebrían and made a gesture.

Elladan spoke slowly, weighing each word. "I have no justification for my actions, and I say this openly before the Councils. I acted because I believed that offense is the wisest defense: to wage a war before we had to relinquish more warriors to guard Imladris. I feared the Council would object to my strategy, and therefore I went secretly, hoping that perfidy would be effaced by victory."

He paused. Elrohir could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Arwen was standing like a graceful statue. When she finally spoke, Elrohir heard that she was making full use of the enchantment her voice owned: that power Tinúviel possessed of old to sway hearts and minds. Both Idril Celebrindal and Lúthien Tinúviel possessed that power, if in greater measure, and blood had passed it down to Arwen in ample degree. Her choice of intonations carried her lightest word to the heart. "He meant only to serve Imladris and considered that an unexpected assault was how it was best to be served. The less who knew, the less likely it would have been that our enemy would know of it."

Erestor spoke first. "The War Council does not make a habit of crying its judgments on the rooftops. Besides, who here would tell the foe?"

Arwen smiled, demure and disarming. "My Lord, how can I say? But there are ways."

"That does not expiate Elladan from leading a foray underhandedly."

Arwen nodded. "No, my Lord, but it would mitigate his punishment."

Minx! thought Elrohir. Leading them away from dangerous ground to enter a new matter. There was no doubt Elladan's punishment was already decided, but Arwen was trying to spare him as much of the shame as she could.

Her sudden contention following her reticent questions caused Erestor to take the bait.

"How so?"

She smiled again, gathering the reins in both hands now that she had coaxed the horse into submission. "He did not act from spite nor rebellion, only a misguided desire to aid Imladris. The penalty should be alleviated because of the motive."

"Elladan's sentence will not be changed," said Elrond, his grey eyes stern as he met his daughter's gaze.

"What sentence is that?"

"His relegation will be made known to the Imladris guard, and he will be made a common guard."

Elladan raised his eyebrows at Arwen, a warning gesture to proceed no further. She bowed her head, in equal acquiescence to Elrond's words and Elladan's gesture.

"Do you have anything to say against that?" Elrond directed the question at Elladan.

"No, my Lord. It suits."

Laineth spoke up. "My Lord Elrond, it does _not_ suit. Elladan's experience would be wasted as a common soldier. His strategy would have succeeded if it had not been for the gaur: based on the knowledge he had, the tactic was exemplary. Such a thing should not be made light of: we will need it soon. Place him in a position where he may serve Imladris with his stratagems."

Glorfindel seconded Laineth's bold request. "I have already spoken to Helnor, and he is amenable to the idea. Place him under Helnor's command, where he may serve in that post, instead of a common guard."

Erestor's lips thinned: Celebrían looked troubled. "Do you consider that advisable, my Lord?" she asked doubtfully, looking at Glorfindel.

Helnor answered for his Captain. "My Lady, Elladan would be welcome among my cadre. His skills are needed there."

"Then it is decided," said Elrond, still looking at his children.

Elrohir only heard the dismissal. His mind was a chaos of thoughts. Never in all his dreams did he think that it would go so well. Sunlight was streaming through the great windows, casting a crisscrossed pattern of pale diamonds on the hallway floor as they walked.

Arwen was jubilant with glee, spinning and clapping her hands, but to his great surprise, Elladan's face was cheerless. "We manipulated the Councils," he said bleakly. "I should never have been assigned the post in the Maherth⁵ if it were not-"

"For those who thought you were deserving." Elrohir retorted sharply. "You are a great warrior, Elladan. Even if you do not see it, they do. Helnor would not have agreed if he did not consider you worthy, nor would Glorfindel or Laineth have spoken in your favor if they had not thought the same."

Elladan relapsed into dour silence: a studied coldness to his features that was so clearly a cloak to his inner turmoil.

They stepped out under a corbeled arch and down a broad flight of steps, surrounded on both sides by tall, drooping ferns, that slowly changed into lilies and lupine blossoms.

The morning sun was rising quickly now, as if borne on the songs that echoed through Imladris, as sudden and as welcome as a summer rainstorm in a land of drought.

The grass was still silvery with dew: minstrels were beginning their lays. Arwen looked up at the sound of a warm voice, a voice like flowing gold.

"Ah, there," she said, pointing out a slim figure dressed in green, a crown of flowers in her honey-hued hair.

Elrohir followed her gaze. "Itarille?" he asked.

Arwen raised a questioning brow. "You know her? I did not think you kept the company of minstrels, seeing you do not care for their craft."

He felt the blood rush to his face. "Yes. We have had previous dealings. I broke her harp." he added, hoping that by the banter this would earn he could escape telling why he had gone to her room.

Arwen smiled understandingly. "Indeed. I am going to leave you for the present."

She skipped away, while Elladan stood listening. Although he was the most warrior-like of Elrond's children, he dearly loved music. Itarille's sweet voice came drifting across to them. She had a peculiar potency and warmth of tones that was bewitching.

Elrohir watched his brother for a minute, and then laid his hand on Elladan's shoulder. "Cheer yourself," he warned. "Today is a day of rejoicing!"

~.~

The sun was brightly shining with a noonday warmth, coming through rifts in the thick leaves in golden beams.

Glorfindel was wandering through the glades, bearing aloft on his shoulders a young child. She was a winsome girl of about five summers, with spring flowers plaited into her hair and wide eyes of summer blue, bright with the innocence of youth.

He had been followed by her when he had gone out to meet Arwen, and seeing she had not arrived, redeemed the time by amusing the child.

He found her an endearing if precocious companion. She amused herself by braiding his hair, chattering all the while, like a happy bird. When she paused for breath, he asked, "What is your name, little one?"

"I am Eàdocce," she announced proudly. "And I know who you are. You are Glorfindel of Gondolin."

A sudden thorn pierced his heart, stabbing as sharp as any dagger. He shook his head. "Not so, Eàdocce. Gondolin is two Ages away, and I am here."

"So you are Glorfindel of Imladris?" she asked, leaning down and trying to see his face. In answer, he swung her easily over his head and held her so she could see his eyes. "Yes."

She dangled her unshod feet in the air, frowning. "Can you be both Glorfindel of Gondolin and Imladris?"

"No, dear heart. I do not think so."

Her frown deepened. "But I am Eàdocce of my Adar and my Nana. I am both, just like you."

Glorfindel stared at her, trying to understand where the child got her wisdom. "Are you a sage?" he asked laughingly.

"No." She shook her head. "I am Eàdocce, and I want to be a bird one day."

The segue startled him, but he followed it willingly. "What kind of bird? A sparrow, perhaps, or a jay?"

The conversation drifted on in like terms until Arwen arrived. "By the Stars and Seas!" she exclaimed. "Shame on you, Eàdocce, you are spoiling Glorfindel."

Arwen was well-known and liked even more among the few children of Imladris, and knew them each by name. Nor was this a strictly political move: to have the support of the future generation should her birthright come to fruition. She loved children, and her love sparked an answering affection in their heart.

Eàdocce giggled and rose, making one of the most adorable curtsies Glorfindel had seen.

"Why are you not at the merrymakings?" inquired Arwen, sitting on the grass with Eàdocce before her.

The child spun around, the dove-colored frock and chestnut curls spinning with her. "Because Glorfindel was not there," she explained solemnly.

Arwen smiled. "Well, Lord Glorfindel will be there soon. May I speak to him, please?"

Eàdocce sighed. "That is-alone."

"Yes, alone, but only for a few minutes."

The child's face fell. "For my mother, a few minutes live at the end of the world."

Arwen laughed. "Insolent, insolent! I am not your mother, Eàdocce, and a few minutes will be only that. Go now-I shall join you soon, and so shall Glorfindel."

When she had gone-her bearing a little dejected, but soothed at the promise of Glorfindel's attention, Arwen grew sober.

Glorfindel was sitting in the shadows cast by the wide-spreading branches of a sweeping oak. He did not have the bearing of a wraith, nor a king. She sensed his power: saw his bearing of grace and dignity and authority lightly held but ever present, one to be respected but not feared.

"I wager we have less than an hour before Eàdocce returns," he said.

"Then let us make good use of it. Please, tell me all about her."

He sighed. "Then we will need longer than an hour. Idril was a mystery, even to those who knew her best. She once said 'I wish to live forever', one morning when the dawn was silver-pale in the sky. I told her that that was the common birthright of the Eldar. She smiled, and said, 'Not for those who wed mortals. Yet I will wed and I will live. Tell Mandos his halls shall not receive me!'

That was the way she was. Her smallest speech was full of mysteries. I asked who she was, half in jest, half in real perplexity.

She answered, 'Answer a riddle for me, only one, and I will tell you who I am. I am the Dancer to the Song of the Stone, the Lily of Lily of the Vale, the Hidden One, the Laugher. Name me then if you can!'

It was strangely simple: Idril was known for her riddles. So I bypassed the evident answer and puzzled for some time over it. Then, at last, I came back the answer I had overlooked, and said 'Idril.'

Idril smiled again. 'By name, I am Idril, Elenwë's child, most beloved of the High-King: by nature I am Celebrindal.'

This was after she had told me of the separation, so I knew what she was speaking of.

She looked at the window and gave a ripple of laughter. 'Some call her the Golden Rose of Gondolin. But I know I am no rose. Cut a rose down, and it dies.

I am ivy.

You can cut ivy down. But ivy grows back up, and you cannot prevent it.'

Another time, when we were speaking on the differences of Elves and Men, she said sadly, 'We are the morning lilies, Glorfindel, and as quick in passing as the flowers of folk song. It will be the ivy that grows when we are gone, growing over all. They will live and we will not.'

There was an intensity in her words: she spoke with such confidence I felt a chill.

When she had heard contumely spoken against Tùor because of his mannish birth, she passed by quietly, a queen in all but name, and did not turn when she said, 'The nobler the blood, the less the pride.'"

Glorfindel paused. He had restrained his power: kept his story-telling to chronicle only, for Arwen's sake. She did not know, but passing back and forth between times was telling on the mind. He was telling only scraps of Idril's character-a creature made solely of enigmas and wisdom. How could one describe an unanswered riddle? 'By name, I am Idril, Elenwë's child, most beloved of the High-King: by nature I am Celebrindal.' That was only another question to be solved: who was Idril? Who was the Celebrindal?

Her answers were cloaked riddles: her riddles held cloaked answers, and they all spun a giddy gyre.

He laughed-at himself, at Idril-and passed a hand over his face. "Arwen, you are listening to dusty histories on a day of rejoicing. Go, be merry!"

She sighed, her face as disappointed as Eàdocce's. "Glorfindel, I would rather hear-" Her words were arrested at the tears in his eyes. The wound that had so tenuously healed had been reopened by her and was bleeding now. "Yes, I will."

She got to her feet, looking down at him with pity in her heart, and a sob for his pain welling in her throat. "There is always a thorn, isn't there?" she asked. "A thorn in your shoe, that pricks the most when you try to dance."

 _So like Idril_ , he thought. "Yes," he answered. "Yes, so it is. Oh Arwen, did you believe for a second that the Válar sent me as their emissary to reward me? It is a punishment, a penalty I have to bear for what I did and what I did not do. I thought I could leave my ghosts in the grave, but Eàdocce spoke the truth: I belong as much to Gondolin as to Imladris, and I cannot divide my fëa thus between them.

"No," she answered. "You cannot divide your fëa thus. There is only you."

The silence hung between them: a dividing curtain, a bewildering hush.

Glorfindel spoke finally, his voice filled with unshed tears. "Let us go, Arwen."

She twined her hand in his: holding it as if she could heal a wound a thousand years in Valinor could not. "Forgive me. I looked where I was not meant to, and you have paid the price. Glorfindel, you know you are my dearest friend?" She tilted her head up to look him in the eyes.

He smiled and met her gaze, but did not reply in words. The Eldar spoke much and eloquently with their eyes: a silent subtle language only read by their own kind or one they loved dearly.

"Come."

~.~

Itarille looked up, sensing eyes upon her. Her hands flew to her face as she saw their grey: grey of storm clouds, behind which the sun can break at any moment.

The untidy braid: the purposeful but soft-footed stride-yes, it was him.

"My Lord," she faltered. "I did not think to see you here."

His face was grave: his eyes dancing at her confusion. "I hope I am not an unwelcome surprise."

She stood. "No. Quite the contrary, I assure you." Desperate to detain him, she added. "Are you enjoying _Ar-mereth aderthad_?"

Elrohir looked around him. Itarille had chosen a secluded area, where two poplars intertwined their branches and quaking leaves, and the revelry was a little ways off. "Yes, from here."

She laughed. "You are not one for carousals, my Lord?"

Elrohir brought his eyes back to her strange, sweet face. The large, piquant green eyes were watching him expectantly. "No, not overly much. And please, you may dispense with the lording."

"But, you are a Lord….my Lord." she faltered.

"If you call me my Lord, I shall call you my Lady, and neither of us would enjoy that." he rejoined.

Itarille blushed. "That is so."

He gestured towards the grass in the shadows of the poplar. "May I sit, or would that disturb your minstrelsy?"

Itarille doubted her ears for a minute. "Of course." she blurted when at last she regained the power of speech. "It would be all my pleasure."

Elrohir sat down carefully, leaning his head against the smooth bole of the tree. "I would not trouble you," he explained. "If it were not for my wound."

"It is no trouble." Itarille assured him quickly: too quickly, for he arched an inquisitive eyebrow at her, but only said, "Thank you for your understanding."

She decided it would be less awkward to sit beside him rather than stand, and after doing so, made several polite inquiries, that were answered with equal and frustrating courtesy. She could get no glimpse of the soul beyond that gallant, reticent veneer.

Finally, she tried one last desperate attempt. "The dances are striking up. Don't you have a lady to go with?"

"If you are so eager to be rid of my company, you only have to say so," he told her. "But no, I have no lady to dance with."

Her heart leaped at the admittance, and she struggled to keep her face from showing the emotion. "Your sister dances well," was her safely neutral digression.

Elrohir rolled his eyes patiently. "Yes. Besides her, her brothers look like stumbling boors. That is why I do not dance."

"You have other skills," she teased lightly.

He answered dryly, "Oh indeed. A propensity for getting wounded."

 _He is opening_! Itarille thought. _Oh, it is like prying an oyster, but there is a pearl inside_.

¹ Some of the "After-Names" (Epessë) are those given by lovers. That is why Glorfindel calls Valossë Silquelosseën and she terms him Malaphindë.

² _Ar-mereth aderthad_ is Sindarin, meaning Day of the Feast of Reuniting. The Feast of Reuniting was originally held by Fingolfin for the Elves of Beleriand.

³What Arwen used was _Indemma_ (plural _Indemmar_ ). It is Quenya for "mind-picture", and is a sub-form of _Ósanwe_.

⁴To clarify Rivendell's martial stratification (in my head):

The Captain of the Guard is the highest. He\she is the army general and has three lieutenants, who each command a cadre. Considering that 'in all such things not concerned with the bringing forth of children, the neri and nissi of the Eldar are equal', gender is a non-issue in the Elven army (Of the Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, _Morgoth's Ring_ ).

Each cadre is devoted to a special skill: Laineth captains the company who is used for running, sorties requiring silence and exemplary feats of agility, as well as scouting. Helnor leads the squad who employs swords, shields, and are often master strategists, and Avadion heads the units that specialize in spears, bows, and are expert trackers. They are not segregated according to race, but rather to the individual's talent, although sometimes blood features strongly. For example, a Noldo may not be as adept as a Green-Elf in reading nature, although he will be more proficient in swordplay. My estimate is that there are approximately 5,000 Elves in all of Rivendell by the beginning of the 3rd Age, and each cadre consists of about 400 Elves, give or take 100. Only the best guards may join these three cadres.

My approximation for the total populace seems small, but considering that Imladris is always referred to as a "House", we can assume it was a sparsely peopled dwelling. Though there might have been as many as 6,000 in its heyday, Imladris' population was diminished by the Wandering Companies, traveling groups of Elves who set out from Rivendell to various destination in the Third Age. (One of these companies, headed by Gildor, was met by Frodo, Sam, and Pippin).

⁵ Maherth is Helnor's regiment.


End file.
